Tag: rape

Pete sat quietly in the front seat of the pickup. He’d been hired as a deputy by the county less than a month ago and while he’d had a chance to ride along with some of the older, more experienced deputies, tonight was his first pairing with Captain Dan.

Pete, like everyone else in the small staff that comprised the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department, idolized Captain Dan. Tall and broad-shouldered, with buzz-cut blond hair and sky-blue eyes, the muscular and powerful Dan was the epitome of macho law and order. Everyone wanted to be like him; even Sheriff Waites was intimidated by the man. But then again, the Sheriff was getting old and fat. Ever since Major Barrett had passed away three years ago, the county had decided to let the rank of Major lapse, meaning that Dan was the highest-ranking officer under the Sheriff.

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

Pete knew he’d been honored by being chosen for the ride-along. All new recruits were being trained by Captain Dan, of course, but no one had yet been selected to go out on patrol alone with him this soon after hiring.

They’d circled around town a few times, but little had been happening on this chilly Tuesday evening. Come Friday night, the town would be hopping as all the outlying farm workers came in and got drunk—but now there was nothing. Dan, wasn’t discouraged, though.

“There’s a spot I know,” he said as he aimed the truck out of town, “One of the county roads has an exit on the interstate.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, “CR 451. It crosses the county line to the grain mill, right?”

“Yeah,” Dan said, “But that ain’t the point. Lotsa drug trafficking along that section of the interstate. We don’t really have the funds to do much of an interdiction but Taylor County does. They’re doin’ a roadblock tonight at the Hopewell Street exit—which means if the traffic backs up enough, anyone who’s carrying will turn around at the county line and take the first exit, looking for a way cross-country. And the first exit heading west from the county line—”

“—is CR 451,” Pete finished up triumphantly.

“Right!” Dan replied. “I dunno if we’re gonna be lucky enough to take down one of them fuckers, but I’d damn sure like to give it a try. You on board?”

Pete glanced over at the Captain. There was something so powerfully masculine about the muscle-bound figure in tight khaki chinos, glossy knee-high boots and a khaki shirt so tight, the buttons strained to keep it closed across the broad chest—Pete would be on board with anything the older man wanted.

It wasn’t just the cop’s overwhelming physique—Dan trained relentlessly, honing his control skills to the point that he seemed to naturally take command in any situation. There was never any question—when he gave an order, it was obeyed, almost mindlessly.

Pete was only twenty-one, and at exactly six feet tall was still several inches shorter than Dan. His body may not quite have been in Dan’s class, but he was well-built and strong, with short brown hair and clear dark eyes. His broad, youthful face, covered with a dark shadow of scruff, was a striking contrast to the Captain’s hard, set face with its high cheekbones. The deputy was wearing the same khaki outfit as his superior, but his chinos were tucked into a tightly laced pair of Danner 8” Tachyon combat boots. As much as he admired the tall leather boots that Dan sported, Pete knew there was no way he could keep a pair that glossy.

Ten minutes after turning off onto the county road, the Captain pulled off onto a gravel path and reversed the truck. He’d managed to have enough county funds diverted to allow him to purchase a huge 4X4 pickup—for the department, he said, not that anyone else would be stupid enough to take it out—that had come in handy while he was raiding meth labs and pot fields out in the far-flung sections of the county. It took a moment to maneuver the truck to his satisfaction, but when he was done, it was pointy out towards the road but was far enough back in the brush to be hidden.

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

“Now we wait,” he muttered. “I betcha we pop at least one of these little druggie faggots tonight.”

Pete tuned in to the contempt for both criminals and homosexuals that dripped from the Captain’s voice. It was a good thing to know, to help stay on his superior’s good side.

“That’s all they are,” Dan continued. “You’ll see soon enough, boy. Ain’t none of the fuckin’ thieves and drug dealers real men. Fuckin’ cocksuckers, that’s all they are, every last one of ‘em.”

“You sound like my uncle Bill,” Pete said.

“Bill? Bill who?”

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

“Naw! Ol’ Bill Traster? Used to be in homicide in Oklahoma City?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s retired now; took a bullet to the hip.”

“Well whaddaya know. I remember Bill from the Academy. Yeah, he knew a thing or two about handlin’ these fuckin’ pansy scumbags. One time he told me—”

But the reminiscence was cut off as green motorcycle roared past their concealed truck.

“That was a Kawasaki Ninja,” Dan said with a fierce grin on his face. “Now, who do we know in town with a green motorcycle like that?”

It was a rhetorical question; they both knew well that there was only one person in town with a green Kawasaki—Robbie Clebbs. Pete wasn’t surprised when the Captain flipped the lights and floored the truck, heading out after the bike; Robbie was notorious. He was a bit surprised that they had to be chasing the punk at all.

“Didn’t you bust Robbie last month?” Pete asked. “Just before I got hired—I’d heard you got him after that meth lab out on the Ellis place blew up.”

The pickup’s cab was only illuminated by the dashboard lights, but they were enough for Pete to see the way the older man’s face drew taut, his lips compressed in a determined line. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice cold as death, “Yeah, I got him—and daddy’s money got him off. Dunno who got paid where, but it never even came before the grand jury.”

Nothing further needed to be said about daddy’s money; even Pete knew that Robert Clebbs, Sr. owned two of the three car dealerships in the county.

“Little homo fucker’s been lyin’ low for a few weeks,” Captain Dan went on. “Haven’t seen him around at all—which means he’s been up to no good.”

Dan radioed the stop back to dispatch, reporting it as a speeding vehicle. Despite the fact that they didn’t have a radar gun with them, Pete said nothing—after all the Captain was the kinda guy who’d be able to tell how fast a vehicle was going just by looking at it.

But still, they’d managed to overtake the bike relatively soon after lighting it up…

The motorcycle pulled over onto the wide level shoulder at a curve; the pickup crawled in over the gravel behind it. The high-intensity headlights lit up the kid on the bike clearly. Pete leaned in for a better look; it had been a few years since he’d seen Robbie. His kid brother had pointed Robbie out as the one everyone in the county high school went to for drugs. Eventually, the punk had dropped out and gone to dealing full time.

Ol’ man Clebbs was reportedly disgusted with his son’s behavior and didn’t allow Robbie to live at home—but all the kid’s bills got paid somehow, despite the fact that he’d never worked a legitimate job in his short, wasted life. The bike had been a present for his eighteenth birthday and the fact that he hadn’t trashed it yet was a minor miracle. Pete had been sure that Robbie’s involvement in the meth lab explosion would have finally earned him some prison time. Kid wasn’t nineteen yet, but time in the joint would do him some good.

Robbie turned back as Captain Dan slowly opened the door. “Driver, face forward!” he barked. Pete didn’t get a glimpse of his face, but he could see that the closest the punk had bothered to come to a helmet was a red bandanna tied around his head; under it, long, slightly curly black hair fell nearly to his shoulders. The boy had twisted his lean, firm torso around far enough for Pete to have noticed that under the kid’s leather biker jacket, his smooth but strong chest was covered by a cheap white t-shirt with a Rolling Stones logo printed on it.

A punk-style belt made of gear link chain circled his narrow waist, supporting a tightly-fitting pair of well-worn skinny jeans. The jeans were tucked into a pair of motorcycle boots—Icon 1000 Elsinore boots, in black leather, the left one up on the bike’s heel rest, the right one on the gravel, steadying bike and rider.

As Dan slid out of the truck’s driver seat, he reached down and drew his side-handle baton. “Hey, Cap!” Pete said softly, but urgently, nodding at the older man’s holster, which was still snapped shut.

They marched towards the youth on the motorcycle, the crunch of their boots in the gravel loud in the clear night air of the isolated county road.

Holding the baton in one hand, Dan pulled a heavy, oversized flashlight out of a loop in his belt. He flicked it on just as Robbie turned to face him. Like Pete, the punk’s youthful face was covered with scruff, but Robbie’s was the result of lack of shaving, where Pete’s was carefully trimmed to an exact appearance.

As the bright light shone into to the boy’s red eyes, he blinked blearily and threw his arm up across his face. “A’right! Enough!” he called out. “Whatcha tryin’ to do, blind me?”

“Shaddup, punk,” Dan barked, “Get that hand down and look at me.”

As ordered, Robbie brought his hand down and squinted up into the light. Recognizing Captain Dan, he unconsciously groaned aloud. This asshole had it out for him, and given what he was carrying tonight, things could get seriously unpleasant. While he wasn’t too worried about the baggie with his personal stash of weed—some of it already rolled into joints—that he had tucked down inside his left boot, the solid gram of fentanyl next to it was worth a fortune, and he still owed that dude back in Dallas for most of it. If it got confiscated and he couldn’t repay, his life might literally be over…

He began to reach for what was tucked inside his right boot—a Marine combat knife, seven inches of serrated carbon steel. As long as the cops didn’t draw on him, he should be able to take the Captain down. That dumbass deputy would panic and Robbie’d have the Captain’s gun by then. But he needed to move fast.

Dan whipped around, spinning the baton by its side handle, and clubbed the boy on the side of the head, hard enough to dislodge the bandanna. Robbie’s eyes rolled back in his head and, already half off his bike, he collapsed face-down into the gravel with loud grunt.

As Robbie groaned in semi-consciousness, Dan knelt beside him and began frisking him. The older man ran his hands along the kid’s body, reaching under his leather jacket and fondling his slim, firm torso inside its t-shirt. Finding nothing there, Dan moved lower, his questing hands prying through the denim at the long, thick bulge in the boy’s crotch.

“Wha’ th’ fuck…” Robbie muttered vaguely in response to the hard, clutching grip on his dick, but Dan had already released it and was now probing Robbie’s tight buttocks. Pete watched with a strange, tingling excitement as the Captain took his time on the boy’s thick, muscled thighs and calves, coming eventually to the boots.

Dan’s expression changed subtly as he patted down the black leather biker boots—a triumphant light came on in his eyes as gripped the left boot and said, “There’s something down here. C’mere, boy, make sure he’s restrained.”

Hurrying eagerly to Dan’s side, Pete pulled the cuffs off his belt. Kneeling next to Dan, he swiftly cuffed Robbie’s hands behind the still-stunned punk’s back, then turned to watch as the Captain reached down inside the snugly-fitting boot and extracted the long, vicious-looking knife.

“Fuck, man,” Pete gasped, “You could do some serious damage with that thing.”

“Hell, yeah,” Dan grunted, an odd smile on his face. He tucked the knife carefully into his belt, trusting the inch of black leather to hold it even without a scabbard. Turning back to the prone figure, he reached for the right boot. “Let’s see if this piece a’ shit is carryin’ anything else.”

Robbie managed to regain full consciousness just as Dan pulled the elaborately-wrapped package of fentanyl and the baggie of pot out of his other boot. He began to struggle in the gravel. “Lemme up, you bastard!” he yelled.

Dan knelt on the prone youth instead, placing one booted foot on the middle of his back and one knee on the kid’s ass. Pocketing the weed, he held up the package and shone the flashlight on it; there were words stenciled on. “China white,” he read aloud, then stood up.

“We don’t get it much here. Street name for fentanyl. It’s an opiate that’s several hundred times more potent that heroin. People die from this stuff on a daily basis—and this motherfucker wants to bring it in here. C’mon, help me get the fuckin’ waste up on its feet.”

They bent over Robbie, each running an arm under the boy’s armpit and forcibly dragged him up to his feet.

“Gonna sue,” Robbie mumbled, “Dad’ll get me off…won’t spend a day in jail…county’s gonna pay out the ass for you two fucks…”

“Want me to call for a cruiser to come pick ‘im up?” Pete asked. With no rear seat, they couldn’t haul him in in the pickup.

The Captain didn’t answer. He was looking at Robbie, his clenched face somehow allowing a wide play of emotions on it—rage, contempt, frustration…and something else. Pete couldn’t quite make it out.

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

Dan paused, a half-step ahead and turned to Pete in such a way as to silhouette his profile. “Naw,” he said. “I got a better idea.”

Highlighted as it was in the clear light, the huge bulge erecting a tent pole in the Captain’s tight chinos was obvious. And as soon as he saw it, Pete realized what that other emotion had been, the one he couldn’t identify.

“This faggot’s got enough drugs to kill everyone in the county. He’s got—and went for, you saw it—a dangerous weapon. Now the little pansy is gonna run back to daddy and get away scot free.”

Dan stepped ahead and turned to face them both, the headlights of the truck illuminating his massive, muscle-bound form from behind. “I think it’s time this little homo learned what real men do to strung-out little cocksuckers. And I think he needs to learn to good and long and hard, so he don’t forget. Whaddaya think, Pete—you in?”

Pete grinned; there was no need for him to answer aloud. The visible swelling in his crotch spoke for him.

Dan saw it and grinned back. He shoved Robbie brusquely, making him stumble and fall face-down in the gravel. With his hands still cuffed behind him, the handsome, leather-clad teen was unable to protect his face; he cried out in pain as sharp-edged rocks abraded his face. “You fuckin’ sonovabitch!” he shouted angrily as he writhed in the gravel, trying to regain his feet, “I’m gonna have yer badge for that! Daddy’ll make the Sheriff give it to me so I can use it for target practice!”

Dan’s next words were spoken to Pete in a calm, detached tone, as the older man stared the younger steadily in the eyes. “C’mon, son, time to step up. Time to be a man. Get this piece a’ shit cocksucker into the back of the truck and we’ll show ‘im what happens to pansy-ass little fuckwads in my county.”

It hit Pete suddenly—he was being tested. Dan wanted to make sure the rookie was a well-built mentally as he was physically. Pete knew they had already gone too far; the kid would clearly accuse them of brutality. And Dan was right, the punk’s old man would buy the little fuck’s way off the drug charges. There was really only one way out.

Pete nodded at Dan and advanced toward the figure struggling on the ground. He was totally unaware that his reflections on what was going to happen had caused the bulge in his tight chinos to swell, but the Captain noticed it.

“Get up, assfuck,” Pete snarled as he bent down, caught Robbie under the arms, and dragged him to his feet again.

Silently, without a word, Dan stepped forward, reached out a huge hand and wrapped it around Robbie’s throat. With a single jerk of his massive, heavily muscled arm, the Captain lifted the kid straight up. Gagging as he choked, Robbie flailed his legs aimlessly, his Icon boots kicking in the air a good four inches above the gravel.

As Dan drew his arm back, Pete could see how the bicep and the tricep bulged and the huge deltoid swelled. When his fist launched forward again, the enormous power packed into his muscles exploded with the force of an industrial piston.

He punched the teen straight in the jaw, nearly breaking it.

Robbie’s mouth sagged misshapenly open as he passed out, stunned into unconsciousness by the single blow. Dan flung the lean, limp form into the bed of the truck with a contemptuous flick, as if we was tossing out litter.

“C’mon, get in,” the older man said, closing the tailgate. “I know the perfect place to, uh, dump some garbage after we get done teachin’ this cocksucker the error of his ways.”

Pete opened the passenger door, but paused before getting in. “Uh, Cap—” he began before awkwardly stopping. The older man looked at him, his sky-blue eyes focused on the rookie with laser precision. Pete started again. “Cap, um, how many times you done somthin’ like this before?’

The hardbodied blond alpha froze for a moment, then relaxed slightly. “I haven’t. But I’ve been planning it out for a long time. See, this county is bein’ flooded by these deviant punks. All of ‘em, all the troublemakers and speeders and dope-smokers. Problem is, their daddies didn’t teach none of ‘em right. They didn’t teach ‘em that you gotta obey Authority, no matter what. No matter how much it hurts or how scared you are, if Authority wants to put its dick up yer ass or use your body as a punching bag, you gotta obey.”

“So we gotta teach the fuckers ourselves,” the older man continued. “And since it’s the most important lesson in their useless lives, it’s gotta be driven home, ruthlessly, relentlessly. Even if it’s the last lesson they learn—so long as they learn it.”

Pete knew that much of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense, but he also knew that all of what he’d heard made his dick leak. “Cool,” he replied, returning the Captain’s smile. “Just asking. Let’s get goin’ before the biker boy wakes up.” He climbed into the passenger seat.

“Yeah,” Dan remarked as he settled into the driver’s seat, “That’s a good clue right there. If ya pull over a dude on a bike, check out his crotch. More’n likely, his dick’ll be hard. Faggots love motorcycles; somethin’ about the way it vibrates their assholes or somethin’.”

The pickup rumbled into life and Dan pulled off the shoulder. Darkness had fallen, a hazy, almost glowing darkness as a heavy mist thickened in the chill night air. It lay like a blanket over the isolated rural countryside, muffling what faint sounds were present.

After a couple of miles, they drove out of the mist; several miles further from town, Dan veered the truck to the left. Pete, who hadn’t noticed the dirt track, winced, but soon found himself bouncing in the cab as the 4X4 jolted down a little-used dirt track.

“Never even knew this was here,” he remarked. “Where’s it go?”

“There’s an old quarry back down here,” Dan replied. “Very isolated—it’s a great dumping ground.”

Pete was quiet, letting his imagination soar and his thick cock throb.

Eventually they came to the end of the track, a wide, barren circle of dirt beyond which was a low rise of rocks. When Dan killed the truck, Pete got out and took a look. Beyond the rocks was a huge gap in the earth, at least a quarter-mile across. It was deep, too. Pete shined his flashlight into the depths; the reflection came back to him scattered from a watery surface some three hundred feet below. It was a perfect place to dump unwanted garbage.

Dan, in the meantime, had opened the tailgate and was trying to drag Robbie out. Torn between fear and outrage, the teen was resisting the Captain valiantly, fighting as if he knew his life was at stake. He couldn’t do much in the way of damage with his hands still cuffed behind his back, but he was pissing Dan off.

“C’mon, boy, I could use some help!” Dan called. Pete obediently switched off the flashlight, slipped it back into his belt, and headed for the truck. The young cop helped grab hold of the writhing, squirming youth in the bed of the pickup, feeling the muscles in the kid’s lean, strong body moving underneath his leather jacket.

Between them, the two powerful adults had no problem manhandling the punk out of the truck and standing him on his feet.

“Now what?” Pete asked.

“Now you hop up in the back of the truck yourself,” Dan grinned. “We gotta lesson plan to stick to.”

“You fuckin’ psychos!” Robbie bawled, his voice tremulous with fear. The little fucker wasn’t very quick on the ball even when he wasn’t higher than a kite, but he knew that these dudes had gone too far, even for these oo-rah hyper-martial types. They’d gone way past the point of losing their jobs and were into federal pen time now. He had the feeling that something was happening that even daddy might not be able to fix.

Dan spun Robbie around, making him face Pete as the latter scrambled up into the bed of the pickup. “Here,” Dan said, bending the teen over the opened tailgate, his huge hand splayed over the back of Robbie’s head, forcing his face down into the bed, “Keep ‘im down. Pin his shoulders.”

An electrical thrill, almost sensuous in nature, jolted through Pete’s strong, hardbodied form as he knelt with his knees on the kid’s shoulders. He brought his legs together, the leather of his Danner boots pressing snugly against Robbie’s temples. “All right, teach,” he said, smiling happily, “What’s lesson number one?” He was liking this.

Dan stepped up, grabbed Robbie’s chain belt, and with a single jerk, yanked the boy’s jeans down as far as the tops of his boots. It made for an effective set of shackles; the kid couldn’t spread his legs farther apart than eighteen inches in any direction; there was no way he could run.

It also made for an effective display of Robbie’s bare ass. Too lazy to care about underwear, the punk invariably went commando. Tonight, it put him at a distinct disadvantage.

Dan pulled his baton back out of his utility belt. “Lesson Number One,” he said, with a wide, sharklike grin, “Is that when Authority says ya gotta take one up the ass, it means you gotta take one up the ass. At least the little faggot came dressed to learn.”

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched over their coarse, brutal laughter. And he wasn’t. What little part of his wasted life hadn’t been devoted to the pursuit of drugs had been devoted to the pursuit of pussy. But Robbie was about to experience an entirely new set of sensations, both physically and mentally.

“Shaddup and take it, motherfucker,” Dan snarled and shoved the baton into Robbie’s smooth, tight, and utterly vulnerable asshole.

The teen’s scream was loud and piercing, with a lingering echo from the other side of the quarry. The cold, rigid metal shaft tore roughly past his sphincter as it was jammed viciously into his tender colon. He went stiff with sudden, searing pain, the smooth rounded globes of his buttocks tensing visibly. He rose up on his toes in an instinctive attempt to climb off the impaling rod in his ass; his boots scuffled in the dirt but it did him no good.

Pete felt the lithe young body twist and jerk in pain beneath him. Bending forward, he put his hands on the punk’s back, feeling the kid squirm beneath the leather jacket. The well-built cop shuddered with pleasure.

“Scream all ya want, cocksucker,” Dan laughed cruelly, “Ain’t no one around to hear ya. We can do what we wanna with ya out here, you fuckin’ fairy, and no one will ever know. So keep screamin’, asswipe.”

He stopped and bent forward, whispering into Robbie’s ear. Since Pete was bent over Robbie as well, their large muscular bodies were pressed together and Pete could hear every word.

“Keep screamin’, you homo piece a’ shit,” Dan murmured huskily into the wailing kid’s ear. “I like hearing you scream. I like it a lot.”

Pete suddenly became aware he could feel a hot trickle of precum leaking from the pulsing head of his own cock.

The alpha cop pulled the nightstick out of the teen’s ass, then smacked him across the buttcheeks with it. “Ya hear that?” he asked Pete with malicious glee. “He’ll do anything we want. Ain’t that nice?”

Bending back down over the punk, Dan said, “What we want is for you to learn yer lesson. The first lesson was to take it up the ass when Authority tells ya to.”

Dan stepped back a couple of paces and unbuttoned his khaki shirt. He bared his furry chest to the cool night air, his large dark nipples hardening at once in the chill. As he reached down and unzipped his fly, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the Captain in three-quarters profile.

It was an image Pete would never forget. The moonlight gave a sliver tint to Dan’s golden flattop hair. His massive pecs threw dark shadows across his hair-covered chest like mountains shading a forested valley. The glossy, knee-high boots gleamed brightly, but it was what was dangling in the air above them that caught Pete’s attention. Dangling—and dripping.

Pete had never seen a dick that big before. He stared at it, then looked up, his wide eyes catching Dan’s bright blue ones. “G’wan,” the older cop said, grinning, “Pull it out. You know you wanna.”

And he did. Still kneeling on Robbie’s back, Pete reached down and hauled his own throbbing shaft up out of his chinos. Like Dan’s, it was erect and oozing, transparent drops of precum splattering on the teen’s leather jacket.

“Lesson Number Two,” Dan said calmly, “Is that when Authority tells ya you gotta take it up the ass again, you gotta take it up the ass again.” Lunging forward, he rammed his huge, engorged tool all the way up into the kid’s asshole, tearing the already-traumatized sphincter on its way in. Robbie’s piercing shriek reached an octave Pete hadn’t thought possible in a male.

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Dan sneered, “Keep that shit up. I could feel that scream all the way down to the base of my cock.” The huge, hulking alpha looked up and Pete was held entranced by his blazing blue eyes.

“See, this is how ya gotta get ‘em to learn who’s boss.” Turning back down to the squealing youth riding his enormous hog, he jeered, “Ain’t that right, boy? You gonna listen now, huh?”

Pinned down by the powerful rookie with the Captain plowing his ass mercilessly, Robbie was being crushed in the twin grip of pain and fear. Sobbing and whimpering, he wasn’t lucid enough to realize he’d been asked a question and he needed to answer it. Dan thought he needed to learn that, too.

“Hey, Pete, he ain’t answerin’,” the Captain called out as he continued to pump his cock up the kid’s ass without throwing off the tempo of his deep, gut-fucking thrusts. “Show ‘im what a bad idea it is not to pay attention in class.”

Pete scooted backwards off of Robbie. He reached down and grabbed a hank of the teen’s long black hair and pulled his head up off the bed of the truck, bending his neck back until the terrified punk was looking Pete directly in the eyes. Robbie’s face was taut and strained, a mask of agony, while his wide eyes darted wildly, fruitlessly seeking any form of succor.

“You’d better answer the Captain when he asks you a question, asswipe,” Pete said calmly and, balling up his free hand, smashed it into Robbie’s face.

Afterwards, Pete was never able to explain precisely in words the sensations that ran through his sharp warrior brain or his young, muscular form. There was something about the sensation of breaking the kid’s nose with a single blow, the soft, crackling, crunching sound of the cartilage collapsing under his fist that reverberated through his whole body but seemed to center in his dick.

It was his first taste of power over another male, the first time he was able to deliberately use his strong young body to make a young worthless punk suffer, and it was…indescribable.

With a wide, goofy, lovable grin and an intoxicating swell of lust, he punched Robbie in the face again. And again.

As the rape continued unabated, Robbie mewled in pain and spit out three teeth. The effort almost made him scream; both his cheekbones were broken and his face was already bruised and swelling. But the real agony was in his reamed-out asshole; with every thrust of Dan’s huge dick, the firm, lean youth could feel the thick swollen veins individually as they plunged past his excruciatingly enlarged sphincter. Worse, the constant battering and grinding his prostate had to endure resulted in an unwanted and entirely involuntary erection. Robbie’s dick wasn’t as big as either Pete’s or Dan’s, but it wasn’t small, either. The fact that it was stiff and throbbing as it slapped against his belly—his t-shirt had ridden up during the sexual assault—was clear to all three of them, audibly as well as visibly.

Dan, his blond hair dark and his chest fur matted with the sweat of rough physical exertion, looked at Pete with an almost leering grin. “Lookit the homo’s cock. Toldja he was a faggot—they all are. Disgusting fuckpig,”—this last was to Robbie—“yer daddy shoulda shoved his cock up yer ass years ago and showed ya how to obey a real man with Authority. Maybe ya wouldn’ta ended up a worthless drug-dealin’ cum-drinkin’ sack a’ shit, huh?”

As terrified as the traumatized kid was, he was still just barely lucid enough to hear and understand the words of the two muscle-bound cops who were torturing him. Given how the alpha cop’s tool was plunged deep into his guts, Dan’s next comment, though, blew what little was left of him mind.

“Motherfucker’s gettin’ loose,” he said to Pete. The rookie could see a gleam in the Captain’s cold blue eyes—a gleam of murderous insanity that sent another thrill through Pete’s hard, powerful body. It was a sensation of both mental and sexual anticipation, the sense of being on the verge of discovering a whole new world of pleasure, the more exciting for its being utterly taboo. The young cop’s breathing became deep and intense, almost erratic.

He reached down to his belt and pulled out the combat knife he’d taken off Robbie. Holding it up, he displayed it to Pete, still wearing his impishly malicious grin.

As the moonlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade and the vicious serrations, Pete found himself quickly looking away—his dick was pulsing a little too hard; beneath it, his hairy scrotum was drawing up, preparing to be emptied…he needed to calm down for just a moment; wherever this was heading, he wanted to be in at the end so fucking bad…

Robbie hadn’t seen the knife and probably wouldn’t have reacted if he had. The spoiled teen punk was being brutally violated; he instinctively knew that worse was to come, since there was no other way out—these dudes weren’t just gonna let him go.

His response was to shut down completely; aside from the cries of pain forced involuntarily from him, the terrified boy said nothing. He clenched his eyes closed, forcibly shutting out the image to Pete’s grinning, joyful face, his dark eyes lit from within by a slowly strengthening gleam of sexual sadism.

The mist had caught up to them, a heavy cloud that surrounded the trio at the back of the truck and isolated them even further from reality. The refracted glare of the headlight made it bright enough for them to see, but it intensified the feeling that Dan and Pete were alone in a universe of their own making, where Robbie was no more than a thing to be used…

…because that’s exactly what he was in reality.

The pinned, cuffed youth was still in his t-shirt and biker jacket; the thick chill mist didn’t touch his upper body. It wrapped moist tendrils around his long erect dick, but since he was resolutely ignoring all tactile sensations, he was unaware of either the cold or his cock—that, especially; he wasn’t gay, the was no way he had an erection while getting raped.

Dan could feel his huge balls swelling, overloaded with hot manspunk. Looking at Pete’s face and seeing the sweat trickle down the rookie’s cheeks to be lost in the young cop’s thick dark facial scruff, he knew Pete was feeling the same thing. This was it. This was why he’d brought the boy out here. Fuck, this was why he’d brought both boys out here.

Tightening his powerful ass muscles, Dan brought his legs together, his knee-high glossy boots pressed against Robbie’s calf-high biker boots. Driving forward with extra force, he shoved his cock further up the teen’s ass than ever before. His thick tool ground mercilessly against the punk’s prostate; the pressure, added to the adrenaline and the sheer raw testosterone flowing in the kid’s lean, randy body, made Robbie’s dick throb—but the boy made no sound other than a faint grunt.

“Time for yer final lesson, faggot,” Dan jeered. “Ya hear me, boy?”

In full mental retreat, Robbie said nothing. He never heard the words.

Dan glanced up at Pete. The rookie was still crouched in the bed of the pickup, holding Robbie’s head up so he could look in the punk fucker’s battered and bruised face. Below, and pointing right at Robbie, Pete’s enormous shaft was pulsating visibly.

“Yer right, the asshole ain’t payin’ attention, Cap,” the younger cop said huskily, with a catch in his breath.

Raising his arm, he slammed it back down, driving the into Robbie’s body. Seven inches of razor-sharp steel pierced the teen’s black leather jacket like it was butter, then the serrated blade punctured the kid’s back and sliced smoothly and cleanly through flesh and muscle into the center of his right kidney.

Robbie was a master of denial, but sudden massive organ trauma was too much for the teen to ignore. His body went rigid in the remorseless grip of instant shock; the muscles in his colon clenched involuntarily, clutching at Dan’s throbbing, cum-filled shaft like a hand in a velvet glove.

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the alpha cop yelled, the thick fog dulling the sound after a few yards. “Now the faggot’s ready to learn!” Twisting the knife violently in the wound, he made Robbie scream in pain.

Pete, still clutching a fistful of the boy’s hair, looked deeply into the teen’s wide, almost crazed eyes, ringed with dark circles of shock, and yet another thrill. It was—it was—no, he couldn’t quote place it, but he was almost there…

Dan stabbed Robbie in the back again. This time he angle the knife upward near the previous wound, driving the cold hard shaft up through the kid’s liver and diaphragm into his right lung.

The pain was worse than anything Robbie could imagine. He struggled forward, digging his Icon Elsinore boots in, trying vainly to pull himself off the knife that was lodged deep in his smooth, slim torso. Breathing irregularly, his eyes wildly sought those of Pete, but without any recognition of who he was looking at—it was merely the instinctive reaction of a human in mortal agony to seek another human face.

Not that any of the faces around Robbie had any human pity.

“Final lesson, you motherfuckin’ faggot,” Dan snarled, sweat running down his huge furry chest as he pumped himself closer to orgasm, “Is, you pull a weapon on Authority, Authority’s gonna fuck you up. You got me, you homo garbage?”

Dan looked up, with an expression Pete hadn’t seen before. The alpha cop held up the blood-stained knife. “Here,” he said, tossing the weapon to the rookie, “Fuck ‘im up.”

Agilely snatching the knife out of the air, the young hardbodied cop looked at it, almost wonderingly. He glanced back up at Dan, his face an open question.

“Go on,” the older man said, still thrusting his cock relentlessly up the teen’s ass, “We ain’t got all night. I know you wanna. You know you wanna. Do it, man.”

Pete stared back down at the blade, knowing a line was about to be crossed. Did he want to really cross it?

Yeah. Fuck yeah. He want to cross it so bad he was about to cum. He jammed the blade sideways into Robbie’s throat.

It went through smoothly at first, until it hit the larynx. Pete had to apply a little pressure to saw through the vocal cords and the trachea, but his tight grip on Robbie’s hair helped him finally shove the tip of the blade out the other side of the teen’s neck.

Then he let go, leaving the knife embedded in the kid’s neck.

It was the look that Robbie gave him—the teenager’s pleading, despairing look, the way his tongue protruded, having been forced out by the sawing action of the blade at its base, the gurgling syllables of sheer terror coughed out by the dying punk, “Gah! Ng! Guk!”…

Pete suddenly understood the sensation he’d been unable to place before. The hidden thrill was power, not just over the kid’s suffering, but over his life.

Well, actually, it was the power to end it that Pete found so fucking hot.

As the agonized kid gargled and drowned in his own blood, he was given something to swallow. Without having to touch it, Pete’s dick suddenly exploded, sending a solid stream of searing hot manseed directly into Robbie’s face. As the boy shuddered in his last few moments on earth, a jet of thick creamy sperm was shot into his open mouth.

Grunting and rutting uncontrollably, Dan found release for the pressure in his scrote, hosing the punk fuck’s innards with his spunk. Robbie jerked and trembled as he died; every shudder and convulsion seemed to milk more cum out of the alpha’s pulsing shaft.

Neither of them noticed that as Robbie’s throat was cut, his dick had spewed his death load all over the rear bumper of the pickup. Robbie had noticed it though; as he died, the horrific pain in his throat and his back was nothing compared to the way his life seemed to be ripped out of him through his cock. As his semen shot uncontrollably from his body, it seemed to take him with it. And his mouth was filled with the taste of blood and cum…

His lean, lithe body went limp, spunk still trickling from his dick.

Dan had pulled out and stepped back a couple of paces. His massive, engorged cock was still pulsating, pushing out pearly beads of jizz. Gasping deeply, he gave Pete an admiring glance.

“Passed yer test, son.”

Pete was sitting in the bed of the pickup, a somewhat dazed look on his face. He perked up a little, hearing Cap’s words, and grinned sheepishly. He reached down into his lap and shoved his still-erect shaft back into his chinos, seeing that the Captain was doing the same thing.

“C’mon down an’ help me get rid of this piece of trash,” Dan said amiably, buttoning his khaki shirt back up, “And we’ll head back to the station to get cleaned up.”

Pete scrambled out of the truck as Dan bent over the still-trembling corpse and removed the handcuffs. Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the package of fentanyl and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of Robbie’s leather biker jacket. “Just in case,” he said to Pete. He could see that the rookie didn’t get it but was playing along anyway, which was good enough. He’d learn.

The two hulking, muscle-bound men picked up the corpse of the slim young teen like a rag doll. At Dan’s direction, they carried it the edge of the quarry and tossed it into the mist-filled pit. There was a thick, wet thump after a few seconds, but not the sound of a splash.

They climbed into the cab of the truck and within a few minutes were heading back towards the county road. As they approached it, Dan slowed to a stop and dug something out of his pocket. In the faint glow of the dashboard lights, Pete could see it was the bag of weed. Dan fished one of the already-rolled joints out of the baggie and grabbing a lighter out of the cab’s console, fired it up. After taking a huge hit, he offered it to Pete.

Gingerly, the rookie took the joint. He looked questioningly at Dan as the alpha cop exhaled a thick blue cloud of pungently sweet smoke. “G’wan, son,” the Cap said in his deep bass voice, “It’s been an intense evenin’ and we deserve to chill out. After all, there are some benefits to actually bein’ Authority.”

As Pete took a huge, lung-busting hit off the joint, Dan laughed aloud. Putting the truck in gear, he pulled out onto the county round and head back to the station.

It was late the next morning when the Captain got the call; by rights, he should have been off, but his dedication was such that he was known to pull doubles when he felt like it. No one else in the department complained; it gave them more time off.

The body had been found by a couple of teenagers; by the time Dan got out to the quarry, Deputy Rand had already managed to run a couple of lines down and retrieved it; it had landed on a large boulder near the bottom.

Dan didn’t like Rand; he hung out with Eddie Phelps, that fat idiot. Dan had always wondered how Eddie had gotten hired by the department, but he’d been there longer than Dan, so there was little the latter could do about it. At any rate, Rand had been on duty and had gotten the call first.

Dan approached the other cop, who was crouched over a body bag. “Whatcha got?” he drawled nonchalantly.

“Coupla kids said they were down here to go swimmin’ and saw the body—”

“Well, his bike was found back on CR 541. Hard to tell, but looks like there mighta been a fight. Kid’s been stabbed. They left the knife stuck in his throat. It’s his own—I recognize it. And, well…”

“And what?”

“And the kid’s been, uh…he’s been sexually assaulted. This is some seriously sick shit, man.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah—he had fentanyl on him. Big ol’ fuckin’ wad. Kinda surprised the kid had enough cash to get it.”

“Maybe he didn’t,” Dan said, thoughtfully. “Maybe this is some kinda gang payback for a drug deal gone wrong.”

Rand considered the suggestion. “Yeah, that makes sense. It’d explain this level of violence–they wanted to make an example of him. I take you’ll head the investigation? You know old man Clebbs is gonna raise holy fuckin’ hell about this.”

Dan sighed. “Yeah, make sure I get all the files on it. I’ll see what I can find out, but I suspect the guys who did this are back in the city by now.”

As he headed back to the cruiser, Rand called back out to him. “Hey, am I crazy, or did I see that new guy Pete at the car wash, hosing out the back of yer 4X4? I thought you wouldn’t let anyone else touch that thing—are ya fallin’ for the kid?”

“Naw,” Dan replied with a boyish grin. “Got a little dirt on it last night is all.”

The Trucker was a cunning and intelligent predator. The senses and skills associated with hunting were highly developed in him; he was excellent not only at killing but at avoiding danger. Some of this was innate, but some of it was forced on him by his lifestyle; running freight, as he did, he occasionally found himself re-running routes and stopping repeatedly in the same place over a period of time.

So when he got back to the town where his last kill had taken place, he was on high alert. He’d been gone several weeks—more than enough time for whatever kind of trouble the snuff of a methhead whoreboy stirred up to settle back down—but there was no sense being careless.

As he pulled into the oversized parking lot at the one truck stop in town, the Trucker decided he’d go out on the prowl. Who knows? Maybe it’d turn out to be safe.

And after all, he was hungry for meat.

It was a cold night. The buff killer was wearing a black Nike compression t-shirt with long sleeves. Tucked into the narrow waist of his clean but worn jeans, it clung tightly to his massive, heavily-muscled torso. Along with the black leather harness boots he sported, it was a warm enough outfit in the heated cab of his truck, but there was an icy wind blowing outside that would necessitate a little more protection. Reaching into the sleeper compartment, the Trucker drew out an aviator jacket in distressed black leather and slipped it on.

As he leaped down from the cab, his thick-soled boots hit the ground with a loud thump. Striding quickly across the cement lot, his wide-legged stance testifying to the massive package between his legs, he was the image of masculinity. When he reached the street, he turned left, heading in the direction of the gay bar he’d hit up last time. He’d poke around a little, make sure nothing suspicious was going on—then he’d be ready to hunt down some fagmeat and drain his hairy sack into it.

It was only a few blocks to the bar. Once he reached it, the Trucker found that there was a line at the door; a large poster announcing the presence of a locally famous DJ explained the crowd. The hardbodied killer paused—he had no intention of waiting in a line; too many potential witnesses would be given too much time to observe his appearance. He’d have to try elsewhere—

As he turned, he noticed a couple of boys standing at the far end of the building’s façade, near the unattended exit door. Despite the wind, they seemed in no hurry to join the line and escape into the warmth of the bar’s interior. Before he could take a step in their direction, a man exiting the bar paused and engaged the two boys in conversation. The Trucker was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that some kinda bargain was being struck. As if to prove his point, the older bar patron began walking swiftly away, the taller youth following in his trail.

So, then. A couple of boywhores who had decided to skip paying a cover charge and just pounce on random dudes as they were leaving the bar. One of them had managed to pick up a john, leaving the other for the Trucker. The grinning serial killer sauntered over to check out the lucky motherfucker.

When he got closer, the shock of recognition tingled through his muscular frame. The kid was short, his slim, firm, wiry body obvious in his tight black skinny jeans and dark blue Nike Air Jordans. It was impossible to tell what kind of shirt he was wearing under his gray fleece hoodie, but under the pointed hood his face was easily seen. Long curly hair so jet-black it almost gleamed blue was counterpointed by the deep liquid pools of his long-lashed, gazelle-like eyes, also deep black. The clear skin on the boy’s broad, youthful face had a dark, almost olive tone to it.

He was the kid who’d played pool with the Trucker last time he was here. The one the alpha had set his sights one, before the little punk had been saved by a group of rentboy friends who’d carried him off to drink elsewhere.

Well, well, well. Seems like luck only goes so far. As the Trucker ambled up to the kid, he idly wondered where his little pack of pansy friends were. Looked like they’d be too late to save him tonight…

The kid recognized the Trucker as well; his face lit up. “Hey, dude,” he called out, “I was hopin’ I’d see you again!”

The kid was telling the truth. He’d been entranced by the Trucker’s rugged and utterly unfeigned masculinity the moment he’d laid eyes on the alpha in the poolroom a couple of weeks ago. But Jimmy and Don had come up, and they’d scored some ice, and that had meant more at the moment.

That was then and this was now. And now he was broke and needed a john bad, one with a lot of money. Not that he wouldn’t let this stud fuck him for free if he could, but money was the primary focus.

“Hey,” the Trucker drawled, casually leaning back against the wall. “You, uh—available?”

The kid grinned. Now that he was closer, the Trucker could see that the boywhore was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt under the hoodie. That wasn’t all he could see; a line of thick dark fur was peeking above the collar of the t-shirt—the little fuck must be as hairy as he was, the Trucker realized; maybe more. It certainly didn’t show on his smooth young face.

“Yeah, I’m free,” the boy replied with a cocky grin, “But I ain’t exactly free, if ya get my drift.”

The Trucker got it, all right.

“How much for the whole night?” he asked.

The kid scrunched up his face in pretended thought, unconsciously giving himself a boyish, elfin expression by biting his bottom lip. “Five hundred,” he said, well aware it was too much but willing to take a shot and bargain if he had to.

The Trucker bit his bottom lip as well—to stop an overwhelming impulse to bray laughter in the faggot’s face. Five hundred for a night with this reamed-out fuckmeat?

“Five? No,” the Trucker said firmly but seriously, pretending to think himself. “How about three?”

The Trucker watched the whore’s eyes almost literally light up with dollar signs.

“I—uh, yeah, ok—” the rentboy faltered, stunned at his good luck. He’d have settled for fifty. “C’mon an’ follow me, I gotta place, a room. We can get busy an’ ain’t no one gonna disturb us…”

“Sure,” the Trucker said laconically, “Lead the way, boy.”

“Name’s Kristos,” the kid replied and this time the Trucker wasn’t able to contain his snort of amusement. The boy took it in stride; he wasn’t gonna let anything distract him from the possibility of earning three hundred bucks just for letting the hottest dude he’d ever seen fuck him.

“Naw, man, seriously,” Kristos said. “I’m half Greek. My mama is second-generation Greek. She insisted; it’s her the name of her favorite uncle.”

The Trucker’s ears picked up at the mention of the fuckmeat’s mother. “How old are ya, boy?” he asked casually.

“Twenty-one,” Kristos promptly lied; his birthday was still over two weeks away. But he was used to lying about his age; he’d been doing it ever since he ran away from home and started whoring himself out four years ago.

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker replied absently. He was sure the punk was lying, but it didn’t matter. However old the kid was, he wasn’t gonna get any older. “So where’s this room ya got?”

“This way,” Kristos said, heading towards the street and turning left. The steady beat of his boots on the pavement assured the kid that the Trucker was following him, but at some little distance behind. Dude was being cautious, he reflected—nothing wrong with that. Probably had a wife somewhere and was just out on the prowl for boys on the DL.

A right and another left brought them onto a pitted, run-down little street that ran parallel to the highway frontage road, one block behind it. The Trucker realized they were going to one of the sleazy little motels that lined this section of the highway. Infested with whores and drugs, City Hall was still determining how to deal with this two-block section that was considered a blight on the town. In the meantime, business flourished.

Kristos, already on the other side of the street, crossed the rear parking lot of a sordid little place called the Lady Luck Motel. The Trucker lounged behind, not wanting to be seen entering the same room as the fuckmeat. Ambling around a corner, he saw the boy disappear into an open door—room 27. With a grin, he noticed that the door had been left open a crack. After a quick glance around confirmed no one was watching, the huge, hardbodied killer slipped silently into the room. He closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the chain on as well.

The room itself was as cheap and sleazy as it had promised to be. A remodel sometime in the sixties had left the wall swathed in cheap faux-wood paneling, now loose and splintered and almost visibly oozing formaldehyde vapor. The furniture dated from a later era, probably the eighties—light wood veneer with brass accents and large panels painted dark green. The furniture was a decrepit as the paneling, pocked with cigarette—and undoubtedly crack pipe and meth pipe—burns and large white rings where drinks had stood.

There was a queen-size bed against the far wall, stripped down to the fitted sheet; the bedding piled on the floor next to the left side of the bed. On the left wall was a desk/dresser combo unit with a no-name brand flat TV standing on it; beyond it was the door to the bathroom. To the right of the door was a small round table with two chairs, not really big enough to serve as a dining table for two people. The whole place reeked of old musty smoke, detergent whose lemon additive didn’t completely mask the astringent scent of the powerful cleaning chemicals—and the unmistakable musk of mansex.

Kristos had already pulled off his hoodie and his t-shirt, revealing a slim, firm torso darkened with fur. His body hair was everywhere, on his chest, down his belly, even marching down his upper arms. It was long and dark and silky, much like the long jetty ringlets on his head.

The Trucker slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing over a chair as he watched the rentboy. The kid sat on the bed and kicked off his Air Jordans before standing back up. Smiling contemptuously, the older man peeled his Nike compression t-shirt off. The youth grinned eagerly as the alpha’s broad, hairy chest was exposed, the massive rise of his pecs emphasized by the gleaming dogtags nestled in the dark, fur-lined depression between.

“C’mon, man,” Kristos said, “Pull it out; lemme see what ya got.”

“You first,” the Trucker demanded.

The Greek boy’s eyes narrowed slightly; he made it a rule to make sure he was got at least some cash down before getting completely nude—but fuck, this dude was hot, and he wanted to see what kinda tackle the guy had swingin’ between his legs. He wriggled out of the tight black jeans; naturally, he’d gone commando for easy access.

Kristos’s legs were a hairy as the rest of him, long dark fur on his thighs and calves and a positive bush of black pubic curls. Luckily, his already-erect dick was six and half inches, easily visible despite the mass of fur from which it sprouted. His balls, on the other hand, were hard to discern; the punk was so aroused his scrotum was already starting to pucker. He wanted the Trucker bad—and it was obvious.

The hard-bodied alpha returned the kid’s cocky grin and unzipped his fly. Extracting his enormous manhood hand-over-hand from the depths of his groin took a moment; for each inch of manmeat that appeared, Kristos’s breathing became swifter and more intense. Goddam, he thought, lookit the size of that thing…

He wondered if he could really take it. If not, he’d have to give the guy his money back. Speaking of which—

“Ok, I’m gonna need to get some money before we go any farther,” the hairy youth said evenly.

“Uh-uh,” the Trucker replied, “You don’t get paid until I’m done.”

“That ain’t the way I work, man,” Kristos responded. “Don’t have to pay the whole thing—call it a deposit.” He looked the Trucker in the eye; he’d be willing to cut an alpha stud like this a discount afterwards if the fuck was a good as it looked like it’d be—but there was no way he’d be doing anything for free. It didn’t matter how hot the dude was; it was against what he called his principles. But he knew the vibes of a deadbeat by now and this guy wasn’t giving them off. He wasn’t quite sure what kinda vibes he was picking up on, but they definitely weren’t those of a broke-ass scumbag…

If Kristos had been more in tune with the vibes the Trucker was giving off, he’d have pissed himself. As it was, he got no warning at all.

The power contained in the Trucker’s massive right bicep was unleashed in a sudden, explosive blow like a bolt of lightning; the impact of his bunched-up fist in the kid’s face was just as swift and unexpected. Kristos experienced a powerful blast of pain and fell to the bed; three more blows in rapid, relentless procession smashed against his face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth before the boywhore even realized he’d been punched.

Stunned, the boywhore coughed up two upper left molars, tasting blood in his mouth. His face was throbbing and swelling; he could feel the puffiness when he spoke.

“W-what the fuck…” he moaned softly, the effort of moving his lips and tongue almost being too much for him. But the words were meaningless anyway; he knew what the fuck. What the fuck was that this motherfucker had decked him.

Kristos had been robbed before; during his years as a teen street whore, he’d been beaten several times and raped more than once. He was pissed at himself for not recognizing a psycho sooner. But he was also pissed at the Trucker. He wasn’t gonna deal with this shit again; this time, he’d fight back.

With the honed instincts of an experienced killer, the hulking alpha had known that an attack would follow the outburst. Seeing the muscles in the boy’s legs coil, he pivoted back, planting his right harness boot firmly on the floor behind him, ready to take his weight. When the kid sprang, the Trucker was in perfect position to grab him by the nape of his neck and, whirling on the foot he’d planted behind him, propel the punk headfirst into the dresser/desk unit.

Kristos barely had time to realize something had gone wrong before his lights were put out.

If fate had been kind to the rentboy, he’d never have woken up again. As it was, he wasn’t out for very long. When he woke—his consciousness creeping back slowly and painfully—he was crumpled on the thin, threadbare carpet. Directly in his line of sight were a pair of black leather boots. Helpless, his eyes focused on the thick straps and metal rings on the boots; it seemed to be an instinctive maneuver to draw his attention away from the horrible pain in his head—to say nothing of the fear.

From above the boots, the came a voice, a deep, rugged growl. “You stupid fuckin’ pansy,” the Trucker sneered. “Didja really think you had a chance against a real man, faggot? Huh?”

The muscle-bound alpha, his upper lip curled with contempt, kicked Kristos, hard. There was a loud snap, making the boy cry out in pain and clutch as his broken rib.

“I was just gonna snuff ya tonight,” the killer said reflectively, “Just fuck ya and put ya down nice and easy. But you fucked it all up, son. You pissed me off. Now, you gotta die hard. Now, it’s gotta hurt.”

As the dark-haired boywhore turned his tear-streaked eyes up to his tormenter, the Trucker crouched down to give Kristos a better look. Despite the agony, despite the sheer terror, the furry young slut felt his cock stiffen as he looked into the ice-blue eyes of the handsome, hyper-masculine stud.

The Trucker saw it too. Instantly, his face was filled with a terrifying mix of rage and lust. He spit into Kristos’s face. “You disgustin’ sack of homo shit, you like this, yeah? The idea of me takin’ you out gets ya off? You like gettin’ hurt? Fuck yeah, cunt, why didn’t ya just say so? I’ll fuck you up so bad yer own mamma won’t recognize you. I’ll fuckin’ squeeze the cum outta yer dyin’ boymeat, asswipe. Goddam, I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’ll scream for joy!”

The muscle-bound psycho reached down and grabbed Kristos by the throat, then hoisted him into the air, instantly and effortlessly, as if the kid was no more substantial than a pillow. The rentboy choked and slobbered. His eyes rolled back in his swollen, purple face; his nose had been broken on impact with the dresser, streaking his face with trickles of blood.

Pivoting abruptly, the Trucker slammed the punk whore violently up against the outside door. Still clutching the kid single-handedly by the throat, the hardbodied killer leaned in, his face—both erotically hot and emotionally cold—filling Kristos’s field of vision. “It’s yer lucky day, ya fuckin’ painpig,” he hissed sneeringly.

The choking, semi-conscious youth caught at the word ‘lucky’; he’d certainly felt lucky when he’d brought this muscular stud back to fuck him…

…but now he couldn’t breathe. Holy fuck, it was horrible; his head was swelling, his face was swelling and the trauma he’d already suffered to those areas was intensifying his pain to excruciating levels. In an almost mindless surge of panic, Kristos began beating his fists against the Trucker’s huge pecs. His effort had virtually no effect besides hurting his hands; it was like beating a stone wall. Even the sound was muffled by the thick layer of wiry fur covering the older man’s chest.

As dark explosions burst before the kid’s eyes, his hands faltered and fell away. He was reduced to scratching at the door behind him, his clawing fingers seeking out the doorknob—mindlessly; he had no plan of action. As he gagged and drooled, his legs began jerking, his heels drumming loudly against the hollow-core door. It was a little too loud; it may have saved—or at least lengthened—Kristos’s life.

The Trucker spit in his face again before pulling him away from the door and tossing him limply onto the bed.

Gasping for air, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose, Kristos rolled onto his back. He moved slowly; the slightest effort to turn his body shoved the broken ends of his rib together. The internal grinding sensation was so painful, it literally took his breath away again.

By the time he got onto his back, the Trucker had crossed the room and was standing next to the bed, looming over him. The alpha’s gigantic erect cock jutted out in front, the thick purple head oozing hot drops of precum onto the slut’s flat, furry belly. Kristos’s eyes lifted above the Trucker’s intimidating shaft, past his ripped abs and up to his massive pecs with large dark nipples standing out above the dark wiry chest hair. The dogtags no longer caught the light, but an occasional glint marked their position, dangling in the middle of the stud’s muscled chest.

And above that, the face. The cold, masculine face in which Kristos could see his own death. The whoreboy quickly looked away, refusing to acknowledge what he had seen there.

Kristos couldn’t ignore it any longer. He burst into open sobs, desperately trying to understand how a simple trick with a hot stud could have gone so nightmarishly wrong.

As if he could read the kid’s mind—and he damn near could; none of the meat he offed seemed to have the intelligence to come up with an original thought—the Trucker jeered at the battered and terrified youth. “You deserve this, ya fuckin’ cunt. Ya know that, dontcha? You know it and want it; yer faggot dick don’t lie. This is what you been looking for for years. You wanted a real man to come along and finally give yer worthless fairy ass some meaning by usin’ you as his personal cumdump and then wipin’ you off the planet like a stain. Lay back and enjoy it, bitch, I’m gonna use you up till yer dead, then leave your rottin’ corpse for the maid to throw out like a cumrag. Think the police are gonna care if I snuff a worthless faggot like you? Fuck, they’d probably give me a medal; they hate cumsuckin’ homos like you.”

In spite of himself, as the cruel verbal abuse washed over him, Kristos could feel his own cock get harder and harder, until it ached horribly. He was almost numb with fear and his sense of bewildered terror was somehow amplified when he felt searing drops of precum land in his groin that didn’t come from the Trucker. The fact that he was aroused while at the mercy of a murderous psycho only emphasized the nightmarish and surreal situation.

Slowly, Kristos tried to turn away, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the jagged edge of a broken rib tore at the fragile, gossamer-thin tissue of his lung. Smirking, the Trucker reached over and grabbed the cunt’s thighs, rolling Kristos back onto his back and forcing his legs apart.

The kid emitted a pathetic bleat of pain as the alpha positioned himself between the boy’s firm, furry legs. Kristos was too distracted to notice how the older man was lining up his enormous cock with the kid’s fuckhole—the rib had punctured his lung, and the boy was having trouble breathing.

He had no trouble letting out a loud screech of agony as the Trucker abruptly penetrated him, the alpha’s huge shaft of throbbing manmeat plunging full-length into the kid’s tender, unprepared guts. The massive swollen head, lubed by nothing but its own precum, tore viciously at Kristos’s velvety rectal lining and ground relentlessly over the punk’s prostate. The boy could feel his own rod swelling and pulsing uncontrollably, even as he wailed in pain.

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” the Trucker growled and popped him in the face again—a single blow, the muscle-bound top’s bicep pumping with the force of a mule kick. Kristos took it full in the jaw, which was hit hard enough to be dislocated.

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” the cruel alpha said, roughly sliding his dick in and out of Kristos’s innards as the kid lay back on the bed, trembling and mewling softly. The boy was literally overwhelmed by the violence and trauma he’d suffered; he sobbed quietly, every motion of his mouth causing terrible pain to shoot through his jaw.

“Take my cock, faggot,” the Trucker murmured, looking down at the youth’s slim body, the olive skin covered by a mass of black fur, matted with sweat. The Trucker was sweating himself; the room was charged with the acrid scent of adrenaline, the musky smell of mansweat, the heady pheromones being pumped out by two males bodies entwined in violent contact. With every thrust of the older man’s dick, their bodies slapped together, rubbing over each other. It was hot as fuck.

It wasn’t enough. The Trucker needed more and he decided it was time to go for it.

“You just ain’t doin’ it for me, cunt. What a sorry-ass homo—can’t even milk a load outta me. Guess I’m gonna hafta do it manually, huh? You gonna make me jack off? Okay, asswipe, I’m gonna use you to jack off.”

Propping Kristos’s ankles on his shoulders, the Trucker leaned forward, pinning the youth in a fetal position with his dick up the kid’s ass. Wrapping his huge powerful hands around the boy’s throat, he grinned down at his helpless prey, his face lit with lunatic glee. “Are ya ready, fucker? Wanna die? No? Yer cock sez ya do, asswipe. Yer cock is tellin’ me that yer just another worthless faggot that gets off by gettin’ offed. I’ve wasted dozens of you little cocksuckers and you’re all just the same—squeeze ya a little bit and ya blow yer death load all over the place. At least you’ll kick and jerk nice and hard as I choke ya to death. You ain’t got no idea how good it feels when a fuckwad like you dies on my cock.”

Kristos didn’t understand the words, but he understood when the massive hand around his throat tightened as cruelly and relentlessly as a bear trap. The complete inability to breathe forced the boywhore to surface from a dark pit of mental and physical shock into a sharply-edged nightmare. Instantly, his hands went to the Trucker’s wrists—clawing, prying, any desperate move he could think of to break the older man’s grip, or at least lessen it.

It was utterly futile; nothing he could do, exerting all his remaining strength, so much as budged the alpha’s hands by a fraction of an inch. They merely squeezed tighter.

The horrible crushing pain in his throat was slowly starting to seem like less of a concern, though, compared to pressure inside his skull. There was a feeling of swelling, both in his skin and on the inside—in his brain. It throbbed swiftly, the pressure hammering at the interior of his cranium…

…but even that pain was fading before the conviction that something horrific was being done to his guts. As dark spots burst in his field of vision, Kristos had the sensation that the huge, cue-ball-sized head of the Trucker’s massive cock was ripping and tearing at his rectum, tearing away his intestines, disemboweling him internally. He’d never had a dick that big inside him; the Trucker had literally split him open on the first thrust. Now, as his nervous system was starting to short out from oxygen deprivation, the torn nerve endings in his ravaged colon became hyperactive, as did those in his crushed, battered prostate.

Kristos was becoming hypersensitive; every jolt to his nervous system was amplified dozens of times in his dying brain.

The Trucker sneered and spit into the punk’s dark, swelling face. “Die, ya fuckin’ asswipe. C’mon, motherfucker, let go and jack me off. Only way it’s gonna stop hurtin’ is if you give up and die, faggot; the longer you fight against it, the more yer gonna suffer.”

Kristos’s hand drummed on the Trucker’s broad, muscled chest with no other result than to make the dogtags jump around. The kid’s face, already purple and swollen with bruises, was now unrecognizable. His tongue, black and obscene, protruded from blue, bloated lips over which a stream of bloody foam dribbled. The drool leaked down the boy’s cheeks and over his chin. The dark, liquid eyes were bulging horrifically, the whites red with hemorrhages.

The slut’s struggles became more spasmodic; the Trucker had reached his arms around the kid’s legs to keep them in place on his shoulders, now he had to tighten his arms as they jerked randomly and violently. It was obvious that Kristos had only seconds more to live.

“Lights out, faggot,” the sadistic alpha grunted and clenched his hands as hard as he could.

It felt—and sounded—like he was crushing Styrofoam as he squeezed Kristos’s esophagus into a bloody pulp. The same slight resistance before giving way, the same loud crackling sound…

For Kristos, it felt like what it was—death. His brain was nearly dead already in any case; there was just enough left of the homo slut to feel the terrible pain of his crushed windpipe…and then another pain took over. The young boywhore died in searing, screaming agony as he shot his death load. He’d never imagined that an orgasm could be that intense—or hurt so bad.

As his lithe, furry body clenched the Tucker in its death agony, the violent rhythmic convulsion milking the alpha’s cock perfectly, the older man felt a hot splash on his chest. Glancing down, the dying punk’s dick rose up and shot a solid stream of jizz directly into the Trucker’s face, some of it splashing into his left eye.

“Goddammit!” he yelled in rage. Instantly grabbing the boy’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, the Trucker twisted Kristos’s skull in a full one-eighty, the vertebrae snapping like popcorn.

With one last sudden convulsion, the dead boy’s asshole sucked on the Trucker’s cock, triggering a huge explosion of manseed. “Fuck! Goddam! Fuck!” the alpha yelled, his muscular body bucking and thrusting, hunched over the trembling corpse of the smaller kid as the top hosed its guts with semen.

The Trucker didn’t know how many times he’d unloaded inside the dead kid when it was all over. He spent a few moments catching his breath, lying on top of the corpse, warm, furry cum-covered belly to quivering furry cum-covered belly.

After a couple of minutes, he withdrew his enormous shaft from the rentboy’s ass. As soon as his harness boots hit the floor, he walked to the bathroom. Soaking a towel in the sink, he proceeded to wipe the slut’s spunk off his chest and to clean his own dick before stuffing it back into his jeans.

Walking back into the room, he looped his compression t-shirt through his belt; he didn’t want to put it on while his torso was still wet. Picking up his jacket, he turned and admired the corpse displayed on the stripped-down bed. The lean, lithe body was still shuddering, the large pools of semen that had puddled on the chest were just starting to coagulate and mat the dark body hair.

Slipping on the leather jacket, leaving it open open just enough for his large dark nipples to stiffen in the chilly air, the Trucker unlocked the door and slipped out. After a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, the alpha moved quickly. At first he was quiet, but after a block, he broke out whistling, a broad grin covering his face as he headed for his rig. Running into that little motherfucker again—he’d been really lucky.

“Aw, Jesus, not another one,” Ayers whined.

Donato eyed him curiously. “What’s yer problem? Not like ya gotta do anything more than a little paperwork. No one’s gonna give a shit if we blow this one off.”

“I know,” Ayers replied, “But I’m just sick of havin’ to see this crap. I mean, lookit this one. Sweet Jesus in a chicken basket, his head’s backwards.”

“Yeah? So? Some dude really hates fags. I know the feelin’.”

“And lookit this—there are fingernail marks on the door. Poor kid musta seen what was comin’ and tried to get away. Musta been horrible.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ayers? You suddenly feel like cryin’ cause some worthless fuckin’ homo got wasted?”

“Little fag cunt probably deserved it,” the younger cop said callously. “C’mon, let’s get this finished up. I’m hungry. You want ribs? The waitress over at the barbecue place was makin’ eyes at me the other day. Let’s go and see if she’s on shift.”

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer. The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home. And that meant…

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight. Some nights, it meant fantastic sex. Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck. That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular. His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer. Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood. Those were bad nights. If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye. If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck. And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex. Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck. On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights. Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries. Lately, Travis was scared.

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no. Tonight he was gonna find out.

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam. He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man. He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on. And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road. Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was. At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam. He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans. He was fit but not overly developed. He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles. His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold. Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color. Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress. He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top. To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock. After all, tonight might be a good night…

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf. Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room. Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded. “This one’s still damp.” Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head. It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck. It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge. “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.” Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can. He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans. Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center. Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair. Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying. “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground. “I’m serious, Brody. You—you hurt me, man. You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean. You don’t have to hurt me.”

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes. “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot. I like hearing you squeal. I like seein’ ya in pain. It gets me off, motherfucker.”

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth. The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out. Now.

“I’m goin’, Brody. I gotta. I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed. “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it? I ain’t good enough for ya now? You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face. Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

Brody hadn’t been kidding. He really did get off on hurting Travis.

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door. He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help. Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it. Still, he needed to chance it. Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed. Brody had punched him in the side as he went past. “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch. “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard. Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back. As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch. Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911. “Hello? Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece, “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him. Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms. The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was. He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down. And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered. He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through. If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

That was when he heard the siren in the distance. Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag. And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door. “Police! Open up!” Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice. Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men. One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked. “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

“See the mark on my face? Yeah, I’m sure. Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload. “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined. He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him. If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody. “Turn around, buddy. Hand behind your back.”

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis. “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

The younger cop spoke up for the first time. “Gotta do it, mac. State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges. That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges. After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said. “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out. This guy can put it on when we get back to town.” With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events. Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform. “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious. When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave. Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

“Don’t forget,” the cop said. “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges. Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order. Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally. I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer. He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up. “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right. Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned. “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order. Fuckin’ makes me sick. That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me. C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road. Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone. “Hey, Eric? Yeah, man, I need a favor. Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’? Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station. Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here. Just text me when yer on the way. Thanks, man.”

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up. Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil. It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay. It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire. As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order. Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking. And kept it up all evening.

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point. But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

That goddam little cocksucker. Think he could kick Brody outta his own property? He’d see about that.

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires. His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

They all came back to him now, but this time was different. The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that. Do them was right. It was fitting.

“Ya need a lift? Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

Brody thought for a moment. “Yeah, he does. I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive. That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity. “No one, darlin’. Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric. Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them. With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes. Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night. Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by. He’d done it several times before.

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom. He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers. The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room. He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin. He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room. Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place. He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

It was a key in the lock. And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist. “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911. He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him. The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did. As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom. His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it. As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly. Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room. Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily. Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled. “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?” He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury. “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya? That’ll all? Nothing else?”

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable. He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before. He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely. “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back. It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse. The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance. Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed. Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf. Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again. He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

The little fuck had to learn. Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted. This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things. And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door. “Travis?” he called gently. “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them. Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders. His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude. Huh? Ok? Can I just go?” He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door. “We need to talk about it. C’mon, man, open up the door.”

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick. The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face. The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee. The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter. In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

That was bad—very bad. Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes. Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly. “You scared, asswipe? You should be. Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis. In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom. Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage. The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity. The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror. He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

In any event, he didn’t have a choice. Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip. Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame. He couldn’t breathe at all. No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor. And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him. Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive. The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive. He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach. The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt. With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye. He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit. There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though. It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes. In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed. Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light. Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor. His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally. “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up. See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly. Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well. Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was. The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

Travis knew he was trapped. There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better. “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy? You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker? Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free. Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly. The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal. The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

Both hurt like all fuck. Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

“That got yer attention, huh? That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks? Yeah? Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from. I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain. Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy. So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody. The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click. Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door. He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

“Ain’t no way out, boy. See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass. Ya feelin’ me, son? Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya? Naw, I don’t think you are. Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder. Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung. It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing. Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled. Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again. The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum. Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused. The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis. For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak. “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered. With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest. This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again. And again.

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt. Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them. It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow. All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap. That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side. Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself. In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound. He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain. His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart. His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good. But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube. This time it was different. This time it hurt bad.

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube. Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open took Travis’s breath away. He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

The hardbodied redneck grinned. He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb. The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized. His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose. His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly. He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

Brody noticed it.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled. “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight. Ya like that idea, huh? I shoulda offed ya a long time ago. In fact—”

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat. As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy. Remember Tuesday night? I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun. But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat. His air was completely cut off. This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had. I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died. That get ya off, you sick fucker? Yeah?”

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words. His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering. But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch. “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp. By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are. If anyone finds it in the first place. Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through. Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head. It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention. He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead. His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words. They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment. Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage. His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place. As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

And he couldn’t. He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life. The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference. The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system. The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo. Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold. Was the heat on? He couldn’t remember. All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock. He was full. Brody had filled him with manmeat. Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why? What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway. In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously. Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt. With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped. “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag. Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!” He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair. At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

Brody shoved. With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything. His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum. Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft. For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad. It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face. The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls. He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum. With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs. Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again. His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column. A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges. He’d get a new door tomorrow. After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer. He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body. The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back. As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels. Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was. The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet. Ever. I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface. The he headed back to the truck.

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect. His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said. If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

That was it, man. That was how to do it. Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot. Fuck yeah.

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation. He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right. He just needed a victim.

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio. His dick was getting hard again…

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age. But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs. Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day. Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window. He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone. Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening. The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

And he’d been right. This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect. “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

The response was quick and detailed. An address, and the info the door was unlocked. The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees. He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass. No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

Joe could do that. He let the dude know.

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark. No, it wasn’t gonna be quick. No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care. It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet. He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly. Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather. Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft. It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation. He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag. Time to head out.

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town. Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

It took a while. The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog. The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door. He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this. Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor. To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs. The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps. Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen. The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs. The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light. Joe entered the room.

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls. Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair. A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top. As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening. The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed. It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf. The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare. Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger. He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office. Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work. “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight. Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy. Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care. What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

He got it soon enough.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it. This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him. Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage. He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it. The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled. The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood. Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff. Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap. Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his. The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes. His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair. Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand. So the faggot liked his poppers? Good. Joe could make use of that.

He decided to give the slut something to look at. It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly. While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass. Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered. “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod. Put it in me, man. It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…” He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation. And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry. The little fuck needed to feel it. He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly. Cliff moaned loudly.

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks. His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum. Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi. He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it! Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment. “What the fuck ya doin’?”

Joe didn’t both to explain. Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before. Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

“Get off me!” he yelled. “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass. As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before. There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside. And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

“Stop!” Cliff cried. “Goddammit, no! This is fucking rape—stop!!”

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it. You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker? This what ya been looking for, huh? A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass? So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice. He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress. “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…” His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror. It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side. It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt. It had no significance for him.

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening. After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right? And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless. This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled. “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts. He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror. As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist. The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat. The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock. That what ya like, fag? You need to be hurt to get off? Fuck yeah, homo, can do. I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain. He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him. He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole. The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment. In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib. The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly. “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap. You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk. Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.” Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff. The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it. Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche. His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him. After all, he just wanted to get fucked. What was wrong with that?

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased. Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe. To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened. He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening. He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

Joe didn’t like that. He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well. He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being. And he knew exactly how to do it. He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain. He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows. Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff. Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff. It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded. Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper. “Time for me to blow my load and split. Time for you to die, you homo trash. You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face. When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle. With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only. As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life. Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale. This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath. Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle. Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears. His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed. The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically. The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs. Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap. Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all. His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror. He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed. His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool. It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

But it was coming. He knew it was coming.

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock. He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head. What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled. He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins. Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs. Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing. And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck. Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again. It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself. That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror. Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance. He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

But that thing in mirror was a caricature. His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue. His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare. “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly. “You like that, yeah? You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it? You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah? Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap. His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat. “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear. “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop. You can hear it, cantcha? That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head? It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail. Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see? Know what that is? That’s blood. We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity. The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked. Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe. And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on. The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough. Time to kick this shit into high gear.

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head. “Looks like it hurts like fuck. Does it? Does it hurt, fag? I hope the fuck it does. The more it hurts, the more you work my tool. And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good. You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious. The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention. “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively. “Ya like that, dontcha? Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum. Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt. Know how I’m gonna do it? Huh? Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered. “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Death is the ultimate pain. You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience. And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls. I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot. Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die. Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good. At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel. Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

Joe knew it all. He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit. He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag. Little fucker should be thanking him. Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace. “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh? I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch. You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’? Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker. No one cares. Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all. The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot. Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before. As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle. The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next. Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea. The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become. Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony. His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed. His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer. Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer. Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt. The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards. There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal. His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed. The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination. It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts. The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock. Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

It hurt. He was cumming so hard it hurt. It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk. Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft. Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed. The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor. Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt. It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck. It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out. Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump. Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen. Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments. The next guy in line had arrived. It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck. None of them called the police.

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

I had a particularly satisfying orgasm recently while re-reading Den’s “Joe & Skyler Take a Captive” – imagining myself as the willing victim and also thinking about the comment Master Mac made to my “Bus Stop” story about a slave he owns. As I enjoyed the cum I’d spewed over my belly and chest, it occurred to me that his reference could be a potential story for this site. So, thanks Den and Master Mac. I hope you (and others) enjoy it.

Mac opened the door and greeted the large, muscular man on his doorstep. “Welcome. I’m Master Mac, and you must be Ashton. Do you go by Ash?”

“I go by Mr. Schmidt,” the man replied coldly, ignoring the offered handshake and brushing past Mac as he entered the room. “Do you have the money?”

“I do.” Mac ignored the rudeness and handed the visitor $2,000 in $100 bills. After some negotiation, it had been the agreed fee.

“Where’s the fag slave you want off’d?” Mac pointed at a young man standing naked in the living room. He was in his mid-twenties, fit, and quite good looking., his body nicely tanned and devoid of any body hair. The youth knew full well what was planned, but did not move or speak. His head was slightly bowed.

“This is Jimmy. If you’d like to sit down, we can finalize the details.” Schmidt grunted and proceeded to the only nice chair in the rather dingy living room. “Might as well get this over with. I don’t know what you’re master of, but this place sure is a dump.”

Mac again ignored the slight, and walked over to his guest carrying a bottle of whisky and two glasses. “I understand you like good Kentucky Whisky, and I inherited a 20-year-old bottle of Boundary Oak that I just opened for this occasion. Would you like to share some?

This presented a dilemma for Schmidt. He did indeed like high quality whisky, and he knew that this was probably the most expensive brand there was. Much as he was disgusted by the drab surroundings and unimpressed with his host, he did figure the whisky would be good, and he’d never had any of this brand. “OK, I’ll have some. Make it a double. Neat. And the price just went up – you don’t get any and I get to keep the bottle as part of my fee.”

Mac remained obliging, agreed to the new term, and put one of the glasses back on the shelf. He poured a generous double shot into the other one and handed it to his guest. Schmidt reached out and also took the bottle. It appeared to be the real thing, and that meant he had nearly doubled his fee. He knew an aged bottle of Boundary Oak would fetch at least a couple thousand dollars at auction. Maybe this job wouldn’t be a total loss after all.

“I covered a little of the situation in our email exchanges, but obviously didn’t lay out all of it. You see, when Jimmy was almost 18 he was caught shop-lifting and resisted arrest, punching a cop. The Judge decided to make an example of him, had him tried as an adult, and sentenced him to 7 years. It was a severe sentence, but the local police chief had been really pissed at Jimmy and he’s quite powerful in these parts. So Jimmy went to prison, where he was regularly and brutally raped by a bunch of the other prisoners and guards. Jimmy was a straight kid, so it not only fucked him up physically it really fucked him up sexually. What put him over the edge was one night when some of the more brutal inmates and guards joined forces to torture another young prisoner, not only beating him severely and gang-raping his ass but ultimately chocking him to death. Then they cut him into pieces and bar-be-cued the meat for their dinner. Jimmy was forced to watch all of this and suck off the perpetrators while they waited their turn to rape the victim. He’s never been able to get that scene out of his mind, especially the part when the kid finally died, shooting a large load of cum as he was simultaneously butt-fucked and strangled. As the dying cock shot out the load, the guard who had won the draw and was doing the fucking and killing cut into the kid’s genitals, pulling out the cock and a bunch of intestines. Two other guards ate the kid’s balls, since those are a delicacy, but Jimmy was forced to lick up the cum and eat the cock and the intestines attached to it. He was also gang-raped while they waited for the kid’s meat to cook. It was traumatic.

“I met Jimmy when I was serving some time in prison myself, and in due course I persuaded him to become my slave. I rent him out as a prostitute for a good fee, which supplements what I can make from this farm I inherited last year. You’re right – it’s not impressive, but it’s mine.

“I actually have grown very fond of Jimmy, and I used some of the extra money he earns as a whore to get Jimmy therapy. He’s no longer straight, and OK about being gay, and he accepts his proper role is as a slave. The therapy had the results I was after. But he still can’t get over the scenes in prison. He visualizes himself in the scene, and his therapist said he won’t ever be able to get over it, I’ve tortured him severely, but it’s not enough. Jimmy has accepted that too, so he is ready to encounter death., almost eager. He wants to do it by re-enacting that scene. Given my affection for Jimmy, I don’t want him to live his life constantly in emotional pain. So he and I agreed we’d have to act. That’s where you come in.”

Schmidt had been focusing on the whisky, and showed no reaction to the story. “That’s pretty pathetic. I really don’t give a fuck about your problems. And I hate fags. But I do kill people for a living, and I’m willing to kill Jimmy if I get paid to do it. By the way, the whisky isn’t all that great – you’re full of disappointments.

“But why don’t you kill him yourself if you “love” him so much? It’s easy. You’ve probably got an axe around here, and you could have him kneel over the tree stump I saw out front. If you whack him in the back of the neck he probably won’t even freak out much and you can get a nice, clean cut. It’s fun to watch the head tumble onto the ground and the body gush out a torrent of blood and such from the severed neck. Or if you want to watch him die a little more slowly, which I recommend for a worthless piece of shit like him, then just stab him in the heart. Here, you can even use my Bowie knife. Just aim a little to the left of his chest and you should enter the heart directly. He’ll be dead pretty quickly, but it’ll be more entertaining.” Schmidt was disgusted with Mc’s reluctance, and his tone showed it. He took out a large Bowie knife from a sheaf attached to his belt and placed it on the table with the sharp end pointing at Jimmy.

“I understand, and those are excellent suggestions. You’re clearly a professional. But Jimmy wants the scene in the prison, complete with torture, strangulation, and an orgasm timed to coincide with the point of death. I’m just not capable of killing someone I care about, especially that brutally. I really need for you to do it.”

“OK. If you’re a coward as well as a fag, I’ll take care of the job. You’re obviously no ”master.” But if I’m only getting two grand and some expensive booze that isn’t all that great, I get to do it the way I want. And that won’t be quick. It will be a lot worse than what happened to the kid in prison. That’s the only reason I’m willing to consider this at such a small fee. I normally get a whole lot more.” Schmidt had had several shots of the booze, even though he claimed not to like it, and it made him a bit talkative. Given his personality, that also meant he was into bragging about his exploits. “When I do a typical job, I get at least $10,000 and usually more. My clients are very wealthy and powerful people who need someone taken out quietly and permanently, with no risk of the event being blamed on them. So most of the time it’s poison that isn’t traceable, or “accidents” that I arrange. Every now and then it’s a vengeance killing, and those are more fun. I get to be personal with the victim, making sure he knows who ordered his death and making sure it’s very painful and slow. In those cases, I almost always include fucking the guy, which adds a lot of humiliation and some fun for me. I’m no fag, but I’ll fuck fags when it’s part of the process of snuffing them – like you all deserve.

Mac ignored the homophobia, which he was used to in his part of the world, but he was curious. “Don’t you worry that they’ll have you killed to keep you quiet? Aren’t they at risk of being blackmailed?”

Schmidt was in a mood to brag some more. ” I got that covered. First off, most of them are repeat customers, so they’ll need my services again. Havin someone killed is a great permanent solution to a problem. Second, I always create clear evidence of what I did, pointing to the person who hired me. But it also deliberately points to me as well. So it’s a mutual threat. If they have me killed, I’ve arranged for all that to be revealed. But if I blackmail them, I’d be exposed as well. So my clients and I can “trust” each other. It’s worked well, and I’ve never turned on anyone who hires me. After all, I’m a professional.”

Mac responded to the descriptions and the terms gratefully. “I fully understand, and you made that very clear in our exchanges. Besides, what Jimmy apparently needs is to replay the horrors of the scene he saw in prison. The kid who got snuffed had lots of bad things done to him before he died, like having bones broken and being subjected to electricity on his genitals. Whatever you decide will probably be an important part of the experience for him. But at the end, as he died, the kid shot a big load that the rapists responded to by cutting off his cock as it spewed its final orgasm, as I described. Jimmy wants that to be part of what he experiences, and I think it would be fun to watch, so that’s the only real constraint on the scene. I suspect you’d enjoy doing that. Otherwise there are no limits. I’ll butcher the dead body, and if you want to join me for dinner you’re welcome to do so.”

Schmidt considered what Mac had said, and now took a careful look at Jimmy. The kid was remarkably good looking. Schmidt never admitted, even to himself, that he was turned on by young males so long as he could dominate them, ideally killing them. Somehow that didn’t constitute being gay. Nor did the fact he enjoyed watching young guys cum, which usually generated an orgasm on his part as well. He especially liked it when they shot their final load while he choked them to death, his cock up their ass, so he could feel the wonderful pressure as the male’s death spasms caused the sphincter to tighten on his cock and sent him into wild sexual ecstasy. That’s obviously what happened in the prison scene. So, he figured this might be a fun afternoon after all.

“You’ve got a deal.” And with that Schmidt described in detail what he planned to do to Jimmy. To his surprise, as he did so Jimmy got an erection. He wasn’t stroking himself, still standing naked and mute with his hands at his sides. But his cock grew nicely as he listened to the horrible things Schmidt planned. And that, in turn, got Schmidt turned on, having never had a cooperative victim before. Mac could see Schmidt’s own erection, which was not concealed by the tight jeans the muscular killer wore, and could also see the tightening of his nipples under the T-shirt that was deliberately too small for his torso in order to show off his impressive physique.

“But one more condition. While I’m ripping your little boy-toy into pieces and fucking his ass, I don’t want you getting all sentimental, changing your mind, and interfering. So you can watch – it’s going to be quite a show – but only if you’re handcuffed in place. Understood?” And with that Schmidt pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and tossed them to Mac. He had no intention of letting Mac live after he killed Jimmy, and was already planning how to snuff him too. He was sure he could overpower Mac, but figured having victim #2 already handcuffed would make it easier. Schmidt planned ahead. But Mac did not object.

“Understood. I think we have everything worked out. Is this all OK with you, Jimmy?” Jimmy still didn’t speak, but nodded affirmatively. His rock-hard cock had already made his positon clear.

Mac had one final question. “I am glad we have a deal, and frankly getting the money was a challenge for us. But I’m curious why you’re willing to do it for so much less than you usually charge.”

By now Schmidt had had a fair amount of the whisky, and he was more than willing to brag further about his exploits. He told Mac that he had just completed a very lucrative job in the same county, so he was already in the area. It had been a long and complex kill, ordered by a right-wing minister who hated homosexuals. He had a campaign going to make homosexuality illegal again, as it should be, but also to require that gay males be publicly castrated. They would then lose their citizenship and work as slaves, required to stay naked so that citizens could see the results of their sin. Since the pastor viewed homosexuality as a choice, he reasoned that this would eliminate the evil form society.

The problem was that a nearby rabbi had been leading efforts in opposition, and needed to be neutralized. Schmidt had figured out a great way to do it, and the job was now complete. He had spent a year setting up evidence to frame the rabbi as a pederast. Schmidt identified young males in the area and sodomized them himself, after knocking them out, blindfolding them, stripping them, and taking them to a room he’d fixed up to look just like the rabbi’s bedroom. The youths had no idea who raped them, but Schmidt played a recording he’d doctored from some of the rabbi’s sermons, in which they heard the rabbi’s voice saying he was sorry. Then he threatened them if they told, which none did. Once he had raped a dozen or so victims during the past year, he went to the rabbi’s house. He forced the cleric to strip naked, and then castrated him. After that, Schmidt hacked into the personal diary the rabbi had kept online (which Schmidt had discovered earlier) and edited it to include vivid descriptions and photos of the rapes. He also added lots of self-loathing, telling how the rabbi couldn’t help himself because he was gay and decided the only solution was to castrate himself. Schmidt made it appear the rabbi died from a botched self-castration. Schmidt even showed Mac pictures of the rabbi lying naked on the floor of his living room, his hand holding a knife and his balls lying nearby in a pool of blood.

“But I wasn’t able to fuck the guy. If I did that, there would be semen inside him and that would put the positioning as a suicide at risk. I’m very careful about details – it’s essential in my profession. Sniffing this kid standing here, and fucking him as I do it, will make up for that, and the fact I’ll have to stop sodomizing those other kids so it confirms that it was the rabbi. It will be worth it if the preacher is successful in his crusade, which is now gaining lots of support after the news of the rabbi broke. And I got a HUGE fee from the preacher.”

Mac listened appreciatively, congratulating Schmidt on his professionalism. And, as Schmidt put down his drink, they proceeded to the task at hand.

. . . . .

Schmidt awakened the next morning. He didn’t recall falling asleep, and was even more surprised to realize he was now naked, lying on a hard cot in a prison cell. His cock was rigid with what he assumed was his morning pee-erection, although he didn’t feel a need to piss. He next realized that his body had been completely shaved from the neck down. His hands were cuffed behind him, and both Mac and Jimmy were looking down at him. He also realized he had a serious headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and pain in his right hand.

“Welcome back, Ass. You don’t mind if I call you Ass, do you? It can be short for Ashton, but it’s so much more appropriate for an asshole like you. And enough of that Schmidt stuff. Let’s go with something that’s also more appropriate. How about “Shit”? Mac smiled broadly, and so did Jimmy – his first expression since their guest had arrived. “Ass-shit seems like a perfect name. It’s now morning, by the way, and we want to thank you for an afternoon of fun and for inspiring some great fag sex last night between Jimmy and me. As you might be starting to figure out, I spiked the whisky, and you spent the afternoon extremely drunk. But you were drinking so much while you bragged about all your exploits I probably didn’t need to do that. I knew you were an asshole from what we’d researched, but didn’t realize you’re also an alcoholic. We let you entertain us during the afternoon and then let you sleep it off. We’re both still pretty horny, but we did have fun with you and we have waited a long time for this, so we figured we could wait another day. But it’s time for your morning piss.” With that, Mac unzipped his pants and pissed all over Ass. Jimmy did the same, but didn’t need to unzip since he was still naked. Ass swore and protested, calling them names and making all kinds of threats.

Jimmy, why don’t you lead our guest to the whipping station in our playroom while I explain things to him. I’m sure he’s curious.”

Jimmy unlocked the jail door and grabbed “Ass” by the shoulders to get him up off the cot. Their guest resisted and started swearing even louder at his hosts.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mac commented, as he touched an icon on his iPhone. Ass immediately felt a massive pain erupting inside his guts, and screamed in shock. He had never felt that level of pain, and it quickly spread throughout his body. “You see, Ass, I can send electricity into your body from my iPhone app, and I can adjust the amount from a light reminder to a level that would be fatal. You don’t have to worry about the latter, as we have other plans, but you seem to have felt the level I picked for this morning. It’s one of my favorite toys, and something I invented in my role as Master Mac. It’s all from a microchip I had you swallow, which is now embedded in your belly. It won’t move from there, but I’ll retrieve it later. I let Jimmy test it, so I know it works well. I make a nice return on my S&M inventions.” With that he touched a different picture, and Jimmy jerked with obvious pain, but did not scream. “Thank you Master,” he approximately responded when Master Mac ended the demonstration.

Ass stopped screaming and cursing, and cooperated while he sized up the situation. He still had no respect for the two smiling fags, believing they were amateurs who would make a mistake and whom he would overcome when they did. But he was now very worried and starting to develop a little actual fear. He’d never had that before. He was always the one in charge.

“You see, the story I told you is true, but you misunderstood one part of it. What Jimmy needs in order to have a great orgasm is indeed reenacting the prison scene. Seeing that kid tortured and snuffed, and eating his cock and innards, really did screw him up sexually and emotionally. And reliving that scene is the only true relief for him. But in his re-enactments he’s the one doing the killing, not the victim. I figured that out shortly after I met Jimmy. The part about me being in prison is also true, but it was for killing a guy in a bar fight. He’d pissed me off, and I beat the shit out of him. He turned out to have some weird condition, died, and then I got stuck with a manslaughter charge. The DA’s a friend of mine, so we agreed I’d just do 30 days since he completely understood that I had every right to beat up the dead guy. He even arranged for the warden to assign Jimmy as my cell-mate, so I’d have someone young and cute to fuck. The DA and I are part of a gay S&M club, where we have lots of fun torturing and fucking guys like Jimmy, and we take care of our fellow masters. The room we’re in is where we meet, and I think you’ll agree it’s very well equipped.

“Jimmy turned out to be a great fuck, and I listened to his story while I was pumping his ass. Part of the problem for him was that he had gotten totally turned on during the snuff party. He had no problem with the guards and other prisoners torturing and killing the punk kid, and his only objection to having to eat the kid’s intestines was that he would have preferred a bigger helping of boy-meat. He loved eating the cock and licking up the um from the dead body. He felt guilty about how he reacted, which fucked him up even more. Jimmy had gone from being a straight kid chasing pussy to a gay kid massively turned on by extreme gay S&M. He is now my slave, and I fuck him and torture him as I wish, but he seems to need periodic opportunities to be the ultimate top, and I’m very OK with that. It’ a lot of fun for both of us, as you’ll see – the three of us are going to spend some true quality time together. Jimmy gets amazing orgasms when he gets to viciously snuff some guy. And I do as well when I get to watch and then butt-fuck the nice warm corpse while Jimmy watches. We’ve hunted down and tortured to death all 10 of the guys who snuffed the kid, so we were wondering where to get more targets. Then we heard about you and figured we’d give it a try. We really don’t have all that much money, so getting the two grand in cash was a stretch. But we figured that had to be real to get your interest. And I did inherit the bottle of booze and the farm, although you don’t need to worry about having wasted the booze. I decanted the real stuff into another container, and I filled what you drank from with spiked cheap bourbon that I’d peed into. I also spiked it to make you get more drunk. For someone who claims to be such an expert, I was surprised you didn’t realize it was fake. But your arrogance and rapid consumption solved that problem.” Jimmy had now guided his target into the main room as Mac turned up the lights. Ass could now see that this was a very large room, and the cell was positioned in a corner of what was clearly a torture chamber. As Jimmy led him to a whipping station, Ass was distracted by another jolt of electricity that kept him from effectively resisting as Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs and fastened Ass’s wrists to shackles attached to the ceiling. At that point Ass could tell that his right index finger was missing, explaining the pain in his hand but confusing him even further.

“I see you noticed your missing finger. Let me explain while Jimmy starts the fun with a long and intense whipping session. The station is designed so he can get to both your back and your front, so it will also be comprehensive. Once you’ve been whipped long enough we figure you’re going to be a lot easier to deal with.

Jimmy, now smiling broadly and becoming talkative as he assumed his new role of a torturer, piled o: “I’m going to focus more on your back, and I’ll remove all the skin. That way, when we put you on your back on the torture table it will hurt a whole lot more. It’s sort of the reverse of you having skin in the game. But Master will have fun with your chest, belly, and genitals. He’s really expert at that. Trust me, I know.” Both Jimmy and Mac chuckled at Jimmy’s banter. Mac was delighted to see Jimmy so happy.

“So let me explain the missing finger. It’s simple. Both Jimmy and I are great internet researchers and software hackers. That’s how we found what you like to drink. And while you were out we wanted to use your cell phone to break into your Facebook page and to find the records on your various kills. We didn’t want you in the way, so we left you in the prison cell for a bit while we did our work. It was easier to use your index finger to allow us to unlock your phone and get past the security blocks you set up. We just cut it off and took it with us. We now know where all the evidence you created about your kills was located and have transferred it to our computers. You did a sloppy job protecting it and you’re lucky one of your past employers didn’t try to break the deal. The more I learn about you, the less impressed I am. I think you’re basically just a thug, not a professional at all. We also figured out how you tried to assure the evidence would be released if you were killed, and we’ve disabled all that. We’re in complete control of all of it.

“We have a great plan. First, we’ll release the evidence about you and the anti-gay preacher. That will get his vile campaign stopped, and put him in prison until he’s executed. Second, we’ll contact your prior employers and blackmail them. They won’t know who we are, but the evidence and all the publicity around you killing the rabbi will convince them we’re for real. And that we don’t care about exposing you as the actual killer. At that point we’re going to have no problems blackmailing all the others. So thanks to you, Jimmy and I are going to be very rich. Oh, and thanks for all the funds you had in your accounts. That’s the one thing I’ve learned about you that’s impressive, and it’s now it’s now converted to bitcoins I control. Totally untraceable. So I’m already rich, with all your money, and don’t have to wait for the blackmail money to start flowing in. You’ll be pleased to know I plan to use some of it to fix up the place so it’s not so dingy.” As Mac had continued talking, Jimmy had selected a bullwhip and started working on Ass’s back. The whipping was intense and Jimmy soon broke into a sweat form the efforts.

Ass could not help but listen to what Mac was saying. He was horrified, and now he was truly afraid. He was in intense pain as the whip lacerated his skin, and to the delight of both Jimmy and Mac he started screaming. It turned out Ass wasn’t nearly as tough as he’d appeared to be. The screams were mixed with curses and threats that further delighted his captors, and gave Mac an excuse to play with his electricity toy to punish the cursing. Ass was far exceeding the expectations they had when they decided to make him their next target.

“A couple more things while we get underway. I like sex to be not just naked, but REALLY naked – which is enhanced by removing all body hair. So I had Jimmy remove all yours, as he does with his own and mine, Clearly that also offends your macho nature, and there’s no body hair to cushion the blows. I think I’ve explained the physical stuff we did to you so far, with one exception. We like it when the victim’s cock is hard. I gave you a series of shots while you were out that will keep it hard until we cut it off. Maybe you’ll get that death orgasm we chatted about! You won’t feel it if we leave your cock attached that long, since it happens as you die, but it will entertain us, which is, after all, the whole point. We probably will not cut it off until after your final ejaculation, and that will be once you’re dead and I fuck your corpse. You see, if you know how to do it you can get a dead male to have an ejaculation, and I really enjoy doing that. Jimmy’s OK waiting until then to eat it.” Jimmy had paused to stroke Ass’s cock as Mac explained the drugs, and he did indeed have a solid erection despite the brutal whipping. He screamed that he was no fag, which got responses of a vicious cut with the bullwhip from Jimmy and an electric shock from Mac. They both laughed as Ass let out a particularly pitiful scream. Jimmy and Mac exchanged comments on how pretty Ass’s body was now that it was shaved and naked, complete with an erection that Mac could enjoy whipping. Mac was now planning on doing just that, and Jimmy laughingly reminded his Master not to get so carried away that the whip cut it off. Mac responded by sending an electric shock through Jimmy’s body, for which Jimmy once again expressed his appreciation. They had a wonderful relationship.

Mac put down the iPhone he was using to control his guest and his slave, and took the time to strip naked himself. It was time to move from timid and helpful host to sexual predator, and Mac’s cock was already hard and ready for action. His body was also hairless, and if Ass had been able to focus he would have had to admire how handsome Mac was, his muscles toned and strong. His looks and demeanor now fully justified his title of “master.” Both Jimmy and Mac were totally turned on sexually, even leaking a little pre-cum. There would be multiple orgasms during the sessions, but they were careful not to erupt too soon. They had special plans for their first loads of cum.

Mac joined in the whipping, and enjoyed focusing on Ass’s vulnerable cock. As predicted, it stayed hard despite the pain and adrenalin flowing through its owner. Mac explained further to Ass that the level of drugs he’d injected would be fatal in due course, but keeping the cock hard was important, and Ass would be dead before the impact of the drugs on the rest of his body took effect. That did not seem to reassure Ass, who continued his screams, curses, and threats.

Mac and Jimmy kept on with their morning aerobics. Ass was soon no longer screaming, but had started crying. That pleased his tormentors immensely. Even better, he actually started to beg.

Mac was now beyond delighted. “That’s very generous of you, Ass, but you don’t have anything to give us. We’ve taken it all. We’re going to take your life next, slowly and quite painfully. That will keep you quiet. Besides, even if we did let you go, at this point you don’t have a life to go back to. You see, while you were drunk we had a lot of fun. We stripped you naked, and as I mentioned Jimmy shaved you so you’d be more pretty and I made sure you’d have a hard cock while we played with you. To ruin your macho image, Jimmy put you in panties, a bra, and a dress, and then had you kneel in front of him and suck him off. He came in your mouth, and followed that with a load of piss. Then you did the same for me. To our surprise, you drank both and didn’t even gag. I’m betting your mouth taste pretty weird as a result. I do think you should come to terms with your own homosexuality, but there might not be much time for that now. After you swallowed all that cum and piss, Jimmy took off the dress and had you lie down on your back, pulling the panties down a bit so your cock stood out. Then he had you jerk off. You shot quite a load, which sprayed up onto the bra. So he had you take that off and suck the cum from the bra. Then you peed all over yourself – which was a nice surprise courtesy of the fact you were so drunk – and you licked that up too. That’s when you fell asleep for the night and we put you in the cell. Oh, by the way, thanks for the handcuffs. We used yours on you. I hope you didn’t think I was so stupid that I didn’t know you planned to kill me too? I think you’re the only one dumb enough to fall for something that obvious.

“Once we had you put way for the night, we went into your Facebook page and made an entry of “coming out at last” in which you say you wanted your friends to know that you were actually a gay transvestite. You had fallen in love with a young man who was now also your master, and you were going to live as a gay slave serving him, moving to the Caribbean. We figure that will explain why you will be disappearing, and it was a lot of fun to write. The video we posted of Jimmy’s fun with you turned out pretty nicely, if I do say so myself. It shows Jimmy’s cock in your mouth and the fact his buttocks are those of a young man. That supports the story without risking him being identified. Given all that, it’s best if we just keep killing you, which, by the way, we’re really enjoying. If you want an update, though, I did check your Facebook page little while ago. Pretty much all your “friends” have defriended you already. Some of them had very nasty things to say about you, and there was sure a lot of gay bashing. No one offered any support or sympathy. I also noticed that a lot of them have posted shirtless pictures of themselves on their own Facebook pages. Some of them are pretty good looking and fairly young. I’ve made a list of who they are and this will give us a promising selection of new victims. We think snuffing gay bashers who are sexually hot is a great service to society. Maybe you guys can have a reunion in hell.”

Ass said nothing. His world was destroyed, he was totally humiliated, and now he was going to die a painful death. His anger and hatred boiled over, but there was really nothing to say.

After about an hour of arousing exercise, Mac decided it was time for a break. He and Jimmy had worked hard, and were very sweaty. Ass’s back was now effectively skinned by the whipping, making it a great source for further torture. Mac wanted to shower up so they’d be fresh for the next session, and then take a short nap holding each other. He also figured Ass was at risk of premature damage. They sprayed alcohol on Ass’s lacerations, generating some satisfying screams, and walked over to a shower area in the dungeon. Jimmy washed Mac, as was appropriate, and then washed himself. They two embraced and kissed, pleased with their efforts and eager for more. They then went over to Ass and hosed him off, admiring how their handiwork had left the once-pristine flesh terribly scarred or completely gone. It was just a start, but it was a good start. They left Ass hanging at the whipping post and lay down in a bed that gave them a great view of their suffering victim. The two lovers, master and slave, then dozed peacefully and briefly after they enjoyed admiring their handiwork. For Ass’s benefit, they played the video of the prior afternoon’s fun on a large screen he could view. They fell asleep fulfilled by the sound of his sobbing.

Mac woke refreshed about an hour later, and awakened Jimmy with an electric shock. He and Jimmy walked over and released Ass from the whipping station. He had passed out, and they carried him over to a torture table, where they fastened his wrists and ankles so that he was spread-eagled on his back. The surface under Ass’s back was sandpaper, designed to keep him in constant, ongoing pain especially when his body moved. The table had gutters along the sides for draining blood and other body fluids, and was on an incline so that the upper body was somewhat higher than the legs. That way blood would flow downhill after the heart stopped, which would keep the cock hard even then and help generate the desired orgasm. There was also a split designed so that the torturer could stand between the legs of the victim, making it easier to attack the genitals and fuck the ass. Mac had designed and built. It himself, using Jimmy to test his ideas. He was rightfully proud of how well it had turned out, and the others he built were a big hit within his “Master Mac” line of S&M products.

They woke Ass up and Mac explained a little of what was coming next. “You had some very creative ideas yesterday when you described how you planned to torture Jimmy. It was the thought of doing those things to you that got him hard. Thanks for those, and we’ll do our best to follow your script. But we think they weren’t painful or humiliating enough and have added other ideas like whipping to the list. You also assumed a willing victim, which is an assumption we can’t make. We’ve planned for that too.

“One added area of fun is that we are going to cut off some of your meat before you die. That way we can make you watch parts of yourself being eaten. You’ll be dead by the time we fully butcher you for dinner tonight. Our new hobby has made us realize how tasty male meat is, and we greatly enjoy our cannibal treats. If there’s a part of your body you especially recommend and would like to watch us eat, please feel free to let me know. Also, we do hope you continue to scream a lot. We’re in the middle of nowhere so no one will hear. We’ve found we especially enjoy listening as the screams become more those of an animal instead of a human. It helps us realize that’s exactly what you are – meat ready to be killed and eaten. It’s quite an added turn-on. Jimmy will take over now.”

And Jimmy did indeed take control, speaking to Ass as the one in charge for the first time. This was his fantasy now, and he was fully into it and, with his Master’s blessing, in control. The first thing he did was hold a pair of pliers in front of Ass. “Now that you’re an official fag, you need to learn to suck cock. You didn’t do that great a job yesterday, although I think you have potential. I’ll teach you, and you can suck mine. But I don’t trust you not to bite me now that you’re no longer drunk. So, just to make sure, I’m going to use these pliers to remove your teeth. Slowly, one by one. It is amazingly painful, apparently.“ With that statement he inserted a device to hold Ass-Shit’s mouth wide open, and started to approach his target. He paused briefly, however. “Do you have a preference if you lose your uppers or lowers first? I do want to be accommodating.” Both Jimmy and Mac laughed, but Jimmy didn’t wait for an answer before using the pliers to slowly remove Ass’s teeth, enjoying the gurgled scrams and curses. Better yet, there was no way Ass could lie still, so the sandpaper added another source of pain to his skinless back. Jimmy had also inserted dentist-style suction tube so that the bleeding would not choke his victim. “We don’t’ want you to die too soon, do we? Actually, the whole process of snuffing you will take hours, so be patient. You’ll be dead before we have you for dinner, but you ought to know we like to eat late. It’s all just part of the process, and the fun. By the way, that invitation from Master Mac yesterday to join us for dinner is still open, and we’ve accepted on your behalf. But you probably didn’t realize you would be the main course.”

Jimmy kept talking as he worked. Once in charge, with the prospect of being able to relieve his sexual tension by snuffing another male, he had a very outgoing personality. “You might notice the cameras that are all around the room. We’re filming this, like we did the fun I had with you yesterday during your coming out party, and we’ll send an edited version of the film – one that doesn’t show us – to your former employers. It will feature you sucking cock and getting butt-fucked, among other things. We want them to conclude that you were a fag all along, which I think you actually are. Having a seriously erect cock while you suck another guy’s dick is pretty strong evidence. We don’t just want to torture and kill you. We want to humiliate you as well. And, of course, we want your employers to know you’re dead so they understand the reality of being blackmailed. Once I’ve strangled you and Master Mac has enjoyed fucking your corpse and making you cum, I’ll cut off your head to make it clear. Then we’ll finish butchering you and toss whatever’s left into the chipper Master Mac has out back. We love the movie Fargo and will probably watch that tonight.”

Once Jimmy was done with his first task, he climbed on top of Ass and inserted his cock into the bleeding mouth. Ass tried to resist, but couldn’t. Jimmy began thrusting his cock in and out of the new fag he was creating. There was also an elaborate system of mirrors, so both Jimmy and Ass could see that Ass’s cock was dripping pre-cum, an observation Mac was delighted to point out as he watched.

But Jimmy did not let Ass bring him to orgasm. He had other plans first, so he ending the sucking and just loosed a load of piss down Ass’s unwilling throat. “It’s time for some breakage, so we can release you form the restraints. We’re going to fuck your ass next and it’s easier if we can lift you a little.” Jimmy climbed off Ass and signaled to Mac, who approached the strapped victim from the side opposite to Jimmy. “We think you’d try to attach us, and that would interrupt our fun. So we’ve decided to prevent that. You’d mentioned parts of me that you wanted to break, and we’re going to follow your advice.”

At Jimmy’s signal, Mac grabbed Ass’s left elbow with one hand and administered a professional karate chop to it with the other. Jimmy did the same with the other elbow, and both blows were successful. Ass now had two broken arms, and he would not be able to use them to try to attack his torturers or defend himself. Mac and Jimmy now released his wrists from the restraints, and, just to be safe, administered similar blows that broke each wrist. Ass passed out, but was quickly revived.

“We’re going to cut off your hands now,” Jimmy announced with glee. After we dispose of you, I’m going to drive your rental car down to Florida and abandon it. I’ll wear gloves so I don’t leave any fingerprints, then I’ll use your hands to make sure yours are all over the place. Then I’ll dispose of them by burning them up in order not to leave a trace. Pretty clever, huh?”

Mac couldn’t help piling on. “Jimmy dreamed that idea up himself, and I approved so long as he stays naked. That’s a condition of his status as my slave. But it will work out OK since I’m going to fly down and meet him. I’ll get a rental car and we’ll go to a S&M bar I particularly like. Slaves are always naked there. The coolest part is that one of your former Facebook “friends” is actually gay and hangs out there too. I recognized him from when I was there before. I’ll arrange to meet him, and offer him Jimmy to whip and fuck. When we go back to his place to do that, Jimmy and I will knock him out and fake his decision to move away or something like that. We’ll drive him back here and he’ll be our next victim. The first thing he’ll see will be the full film of your adventures, so it will be fun to share that with him before he starts his own.”

Jimmy took a slightly different approach in terms of destroying Ass’s knees. He and Mac first took sledge hammers and pulverized Ass’s ankles. They released the restraints, and next bent each leg forward until it broke at the knee. This required once again reviving their target, who was now completely incapable of any action they would consider threatening. And they could maneuver him on the table to suit their fatal plans for the body.

“I do admire your physical shape, especially your great chest and pecs. So let’s take care of them next.” Jimmy once again picked up the pliers, washing off the blood in a nearby sink. “We want to keep things clean.” He placed the pliers over each tit, and squeezed them tightly. Then he twisted them, causing the tits to be crushed and twisted off the handsome chest. There was a little breast-meat that came with each one, and after he was done he offered one to Mac and took one himself. They made sure Ass was watching and ate them raw. It wasn’t very good meat, but it did make sure Ass knew they were serious about what was ultimately going to happen to his body. That body was now a ruined mass of pain.

“Time for a good fuck and our first orgasm of the session,” announced Jimmy. He explained to Ass that they had not butt-fucked him the day before because they wanted him to feel that sensation and humiliation while he was sober. He also explained that they resolved the issue of who got to do the first fuck by agreeing to do a double-fuck. With both their dicks up Ass’s ass, his pain would be a lot greater, as would their pleasure. They loved the feel of the asshole being torn, and of each other’s dicks erupting together. They had gotten quite good at their timing, he assured Ass. And once he was double-fucked by two guys, Ass would officially be initiated as a total fag.

Mac positioned himself underneath Ass, and Jimmy lifted the broken legs (delighted at the obvious pain that caused Ass). They both inserted their cocks at the same time, not bothering with any lube that might have reduced Ass’s pain. This was when the screams took on the despairing tone of an animal that they so much enjoyed hearing. Ass had lost all hope, all his fight, and was simply wallowing in the incredible agony being inflicted on him. Being double-fucked by two fags was the worst thing he could imagine.

But Ass had another problem. As painful as the fucking was, it also gave him considerable sexual pleasure. The pressure on his prostate enhanced his erection even more, and he was aghast to realize he was getting major sexual pleasure from being raped by guys. Both Jimmy and Mac recognized his reaction, and made sure to point out that he was in fact just a fag who, under his own standards, deserved to die a terrible death. This was what Ass himself believed he deserved. His humiliation was total.

Mac and Jimmy took their time fucking, wanting it to last as long as possible. They were turned on by feeling the tear in the asshole itself, and they were beyond turned on by the feel of each other’s hard cocks in the tight hole. They guessed (correctly) that the hole was in fact a virgin as Ass had claimed, and took satisfaction being the first (and last) to rape it. They managed to stretch out the rhythmic thrusts for nearly an hour, but their sexual excitement had to be dealt with. They kissed each other and picked up the pace, moving toward orgasm. As they did so, Jimmy started stroking Ass’s cock, which was also clearly aroused even beyond the drugs that kept it hard no matter what. It all worked perfectly, and all three males shot loads at the same time. Jimmy’s however, was more like an explosion, as he got not just the physical release of a great fuck but the psychological release of knowing the guy he just fucked would soon be dead, and that Jimmy was the one killing him. It was a phenomenal release, second only to the anticipated death itself. Mac’s orgasm was also intense, in his case amplified by knowing his beloved slave was on his way to sexual and psychological fulfillment. For Ass there was no joy, although he did feel the physical pleasure of shooting a load. That pleasure was overwhelmed by the immense pain he was in, and by his humiliation. But his lack of appreciation was made up for by how much Mac and Jimmy enjoyed watching him shoot and laughing at his agony.

It was now early afternoon and Jimmy declared it was time for lunch and another nap. He was worried that Ass was fading faster than he wanted, and he was hungry. They left Ass on the table and washed up, cleaning off what was a considerable amount of Ass’s sweat, blood, and gore as well as their own sweat. Once they were freshened, Jimmy approached Ass and announced that he had decided what to have for lunch. “I don’t want to risk you dying too soon, so I am not going to cut into your core. But there’s enough meat for lunch on your lower legs, and they’re already pretty much destroyed.” With that Jimmy picked up two hand saws, giving one to Master Mac. They were deliberately slow as they first sawed off Ass’s feet, then used a butcher knife to cut off the meat on the lower legs, and finally sawed off his lower legs at the knees. Doing it in that order had the advantage of assuring Ass felt all possible pain in the process. Jimmy expertly cauterized the wounds so that Ass wouldn’t bleed to death. And he revived him so that he could watch them eat his flesh.

Lunch was delicious. They made it sort of a picnic, with grits and baked beans, eating Ass’s meat raw. “Ass tar-tar is sure delicious,” Mac declared. “And it will in due course turn into shit as we digest it. You are aptly named, Ass-Shit.” Both Jimmy and Mac laughed, but Ass was not amused.

“We’re going to take a break and relax, so you don’t react too strongly to what we’ve done so far. After all, the next round will be a lot more intense. We don’t want you to get bored, however, so we’re going to turn on a vibrator in the table that will cause your body to shake and make sure the sandpaper does its job of assuring your back is in constant agony. Master Mac will also turn on a low level of electricity to assure the rest of you is also in pain. That way we can rest without shirking our duty of torturing you completely. But I promised to teach you how to suck cock, so first I’ll let you suck me off.” After Jimmy shot his load down Ass’s throat, the two lovers again embraced and kissed, and lay down for a well-deserved nap, which began with Jimmy sucking off Master Mac.

It was late afternoon when Jimmy awakened. He awakened his Master by lovingly sucking on Mac’s erect cock cone again, and after a little 69 action they returned to their task of the day.

Ass had passed out from the pain, but was quickly revived. Jimmy turned off the vibration feature and Mac turned off the electric shocks. They had more intense and more painful ideas in mind for this session.

“We especially want to thank you for the Bowie knife,” Mac commented. “I’ve never owned one quite this nice. I think it will make Jimmy’s next actions much more satisfying for him., and you’ll have the honor of having been helpful. You see, this is where he really takes over. This is when you get ripped apart and die.” Mac handed the knife to Jimmy and moved away from the table so Jimmy had free range to satisfy his needs. Ass could only hope it would be quick, but knew it would not. He had laid out too much of the scenario he now anticipated would happen to him, not to Jimmy. And he was right.

Jimmy stood in the space between what was left of Ass’s legs, and positioned the knife so Ass would involuntarily focus on it. “I’ve never gutted another guy before, but your description makes it irresistible. Thanks for the great idea.”

Jimmy now positioned the knife just above Ass’s still-rigid cock, and inserted it into the vulnerable flesh. He went deep, and he went slow. At the same time, he inserted his own rock-hard cock into Ass-Shit’s asshole, which was still bleeding from the double-fuck Jimmy and Mac had enjoyed inflicting. The fuck-hole was nicely lubricated with Ass’s blood and the torturers’ cum, and Jimmy began a slow fuck – in and out, in and out – thrusting deeper with each motion.

The knife kept pace, staying deep in Ass’s guts and very slowly moving up his torso. But Jimmy paused once the knife reached the belly button, leaving it in place, continuing his thrusts with his cock, but picking up another knife that Mac had paced on the table. “You won’t be needing these, even for your last orgasms, and they look tasty.” With the handle of the Bowies knife sticking up from the middle of Ass’s belly, and with Jimmy’s cock going in and out of his asshole, Ass saw in the mirror, and felt, as Jimmy carefully cut off the skin around his scrotum and then individually removed each testicle. Ass was officially no longer a male, and in his pain and humiliation he could not help but continue to watch as Jimmy handed the two prize man-seeds to Mac, who quickly cleaned them off and handed one back to Jimmy. They put them in their mouths and kissed each other as they chewed and swallowed the sources of Ass’s manhood. They were delicious and remarkably satisfying.

Jimmy returned to the knife and continued its journey up to the base of Ass’s rib cage. He then took it out and used it to cut into the skin a bit more so he could easily reach into Ass’s innards. He first reached in and pulled out Ass’s liver, which he handed to Mac. “We’re very fond of liver and onions, and we hope your alcoholism hasn’t ruined yours. That would be a shame.” Jimmy next pulled out stings of intestines, cutting off a piece for himself as a token of the experience that had so inspired him. It tasted terrible, but he swallowed it as his cock got even harder. He would need to cum soon, but that was OK. He didn’t have a whole lot left to do. Ass was near death, and Jimmy wanted to control how that happened.

Jimmy next reached into the body cavity and pushed his hand up into the chest area, reaching Ass’s heart. It was still functioning, but not by much. Jimmy squeezed it until it stopped, causing Ass to gasp in agony. Jimmy quickly withdrew his hand and grabbed Ass’s neck, which he now squeezed until no oxygen could pass through it. He achieved his goal, feeling Ass die from both a crushed heart and a crushed windpipe. As Jimmy saw the death-throws starting, he could also feel the pressure on his cock as the sphincter failed and the pressure increased. Jimmy shot a massive load that was even more intense than the one he’d pumped into Ass’s body earlier that day. It was beyond explosive, and made even more satisfying as he watched Ass’s own cock erupt, driven in part by gravity generated on the cock from the slight elevation that put the heart at an angle. The blood had to go somewhere, the heart was no longer pumping, and the cock was the lowest point. Jimmy admired just how creative his master was as he enjoyed watching Ass’s cum stream out onto his open guts while feeling his own cum fill them from within. It was spectacular. This was the greatest orgasm and the greatest psychological release he’d ever had.

The balance of the evening was highly enjoyable for both Mac and Jimmy. Mac enjoyed fucking Ass’s dead body right after Jimmy was done, and he succeeded in getting Ass to shoot one last load courtesy of how he had positioned the body on the table. It intensified Mac’s own orgasm, and Mac had the pleasure of cutting off the dead man’s cock as it erupted, handing it and some attached innards to Jimmy to enjoy eating. Ass was now totally emasculated and gutted, and Jimmy finished the scenario by decapitating him. The cameras aught all the action, and they knew they’d have wonderful memories as they watched the film time after time. Jimmy was content to return to his role as a slave, grateful to his master for the release. Master Mac made it a point to use Jimmy even more brutally that evening to drive home the point – and Mac’s own need to dominate and torture. All in all, it was a wonderful day, capped off by a great meal featuring Ass’s lean chest meat. With their newfound wealth and all the info on Ass’s handsome young fag-hating friends, they knew there would be many others to enjoy.

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out. He was higher than fuck and horny as hell. He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

And combining the two was something Wes was good at. Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes. The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game. After all, why bargain when you can steal?

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled. Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger. Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often. And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks. His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it. His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it. He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest. His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans. Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock. The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines. The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter. The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables. Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room. The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap. He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination. The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud. As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh. The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for. This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight. And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down. There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill. He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town. On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

Of course, that had been on a weeknight. This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full. The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had. The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin. The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up. The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire. The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends. He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk. “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively. “How?”

Wes was too high for subtlety. “In the sack. I’m a great fuck.”

The Trucker sneered. “Yeah, heard that before.”

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous. Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh. He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big. And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans. His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement. He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big. “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here. Put it in me, bro.”

The Trucker smirked. “Sure, faggot. I could use a good workout. Lessee if you can go the distance.”

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit. The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

For his part, Wes was thrilled. He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind. What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine. He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together. Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

Wes made it outside first. The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked. He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone. Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door. He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street. The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet. Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar. There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

Wes was tweaking and impatient. He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar. He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags. He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap. The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them. As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up. Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light. They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building. The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night. There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum. Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side. It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom. The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space. The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame. The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all. The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more. Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him. Wes never noticed. “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk. And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat. And I wanna make you sweat.”

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly. For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent. Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face. “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy. Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya. Think you can handle that?”

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself. “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

The Trucker’s grin got even wider. He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor. His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk. Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed. The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room. He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater. He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

The Trucker knocked his hand away. “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.” The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself. The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face. “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up. The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit. The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest. The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head. The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly. Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot. For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor. “I gotta take a leak.” Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed. It wasn’t a characteristic move for him. Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

He was right. From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass. While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser. The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt. He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor. Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

It was a trap, of course. As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him. At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff. He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

The kid was waiting. The Trucker could play that game, too. He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom. When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

Wes had already stripped. His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top. The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor. He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there. His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it. Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck. The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated. Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation. The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way. Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest. The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power. There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing. In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple. The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john. He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth. “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered. “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself. Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

“AHH! Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer. You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony. I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.” He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body. “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes. It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently. The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

Wes’s scream was even louder.

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled. “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe. Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

The middle finger was next. It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder. “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair. Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob. “No?” the Trucker grinned. “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit. Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand. The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education. Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.” Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb. The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched. He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen. “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy. Got anything decent to drink in this place?” He opened the cabinets and fridge. “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds? Figures. Worthless asshole.” There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand. “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig. He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes. The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place. The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making. “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.” He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig. “Like pain. Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand. The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase. “Stop! Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken. His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside. Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain. “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.” He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape. Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure. Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen. Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer. Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague. He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted. He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly. “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him. Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head. He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up. Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now. The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them. Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat. This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat. Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground. He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat. “You still want my cock, fag? Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya. You’ll get my load, cocksucker. ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us. Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm. Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact. But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

He couldn’t breathe. Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved. He didn’t want to choke to death.

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker. A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did. He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled. “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.” Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before. The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip. “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled. “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat? Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart. Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand. The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move. The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat. He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im. And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think. Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while. But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind. He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out. There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him. The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts. The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain. The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold. It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed. As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again. “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen. “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again. “No! Fuck, please, no! Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote. This time, though, there was no dangling. The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed. The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders. The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck. Think it’s time to drain my load. Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya. The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain. The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate. He could feel it, over all the other stimuli. The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face. There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose. It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass. The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart. “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee. “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in. Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

The Trucker was as good as his word. He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer. The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick. The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things. Was he on a bad trip? There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong. Maybe more ice would fix it…

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred. “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso. The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken. Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one. He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously. His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further. The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick. The Trucker was not happy. The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty. He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him. He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness. Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart. There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room. He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned. Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward. The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be. Yer gonna die now. It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle. Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock. That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad. Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

The lamp cord was long. The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair. The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind. All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened? He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly. As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley. Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat. He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit. The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died. And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily. He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck no. Not this. He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror. It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock. The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony. He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply. The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed. When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit. The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod. Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse. And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight. Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot? Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya? Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump. All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body. “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes. His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable. His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death. His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft. “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror. It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk. At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage. Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out. There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick. In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod. White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags. The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained. He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out. Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom. A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet. Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind. Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job. The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling. The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole. The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it. Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still. The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor. Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here? Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess. Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge. Me and Ayers, we responded. Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body. “ME on the way?”

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one. Some faggot got fucked to death. And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead. I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall. Oh, Ayers, there ya are. What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death. Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name. Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall. Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times. Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen. Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked. “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit? When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here. And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report. I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled. Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right. Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

The day after Carlos snuffed the punk handyman, Nick got back from LA. He’d found a video editing software package he liked, and he was eager to try it out. By the time Carlos dropped by the office, Nick had already installed it on the system in the back room and was working on something on the laptop in the reception area.

“We’re gonna shoot a new vid,” he said, looking up from the monitor as Carlos strode in the door. “Hey, you changed your look—I like it.”

Carlos had been leaving his face scruffy and unshaven for some time now; overnight, he’d trimmed it down until he had a dark, well-defined goatee outlining his mouth and emphasizing his strong chin. More noticeable, though, was the fact that he’d shaved his head clean. He’d always kept his hair short, so his scalp was already bronzed by the bright Vegas sun. It gave the tattooed ex-con a distinct rough trade appeal; he could easily be mistaken for a Mexican gangster thug.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured this’d draw faggots in like flies. So we’re doin’ a new snuff? How much is the commission?”

“There ain’t one,” Nick said, grinning. “We’re doin’ this one on spec. I just wanna see what kinda performance I can get outta this new software. Once I put it online, we’ll make plenty of dough anyway.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I ain’t worried about the money; there’s lotsa horny fuckers out there who’ll pay a shitload to watch us take out a homo the hard way. I was just wonderin’ if we had to do another scene with costumes…”

“What, you didn’t like that?” Nick grinned. “That was fuckin’ great. But no, this is gonna be just a straight snuff—ha! ‘Straight snuff’—I like that. I’m puttin’ an ad up now. Here, take a look.” He turned the monitor so Carlos could read what he’d typed.

“Two top men, fit, muscular, ages 28 & 32, seeking younger sub male 18-22 for video of intimate encounter. Previous video experience not necessary. Send photo.” This was followed by an email address for an anonymous drop box where Nick could retrieve the replies untraceably.

That evening Nick dropped by the condo. Carlos was in the kitchen when Nick walked in and dropped a manila folder on the condo. “Got one,” he said. “I printed off the info; take a look and tell me what ya think.”

Carlos opened the folder to find himself staring at the face of a young man with stunning electric-blue eyes, a beautiful boyish face and silky black hair. He wasn’t quite model quality, but a few touch-ups here and there would elevate him to that status. “Damn,” Carlos replied, “Pretty little faggot—bet he’s already been reamed out, though. Face like that, though, gotta be kinda dangerous—someone might recognize him. He’s done other shit, yeah?”

“Naw,” Nick grinned. “It’s perfect. Kid’s from some Mormon town over the state line, St. George or someplace like that where they don’t like homos. Only been in town three months. Here, lookit his bio—he’s only done a coupla softcore shoots, and one of them was straight. Ain’t no one gonna miss him, but damn, can you imagine what dudes’ll pay to watch us off the pansy?”

“And he wants to do this shoot with us?”

“You saw the ad, man, he thinks it’s still gonna be kinda softcore. But I sounded him out—he really wants to do hardcore fag shit, so I told ‘im to come by the warehouse tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see what happens.”

From where he was standing, Nick could see the bulge in Carlos’s groin start to swell. “Yeah,” the inked killer chuckled, “Yeah, we can do ‘im. How you gonna set it up?”

Nick paused for a moment before speaking. “You know how to work the hand-held, right? Cause I wanna fuck this one. It’s been a long time, bro, I wanna feel this kid squirm and die with my cock up his ass.”

Carlos broke into a broad grin. “Go for it, man—as long as I get the chance to beat the fuck outta the fairy. That prettyboy face is just beggin’ for my fist.”

“Dude,” Nick said with a matching grin, “By the time we’re done with him, his own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between him and a pile of ground beef.”

It was near sunset on the following day when Carlos pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse that Nick used for some of his video shoots; he’d already converted a portioned-off area into a set of sorts, filling it with cheap bedroom furniture—the bed was fully made, covered with an incredibly ugly comforter crocheted from yellow wool; Nick had found it at a yard sale. He was busy arranging the lights to get the best angles—it was clearly something he’d had prior experience doing, especially in this kinda setting.

Carlos never asked, but he was always curious about how many fags Nick had snuffed before they met.

“Is he here yet?” he asked as he walked in.

Nick was adjusting a tripod with a video camera mounted on top. “No, but he called twenty minutes ago and said he’d gotten off late and would be over as soon as he showered.”

“Don’t bother me none if he don’t shower,” Carlos said.

“Yeah, well, he works at a cheap-ass burger joint over on Paradise while waitin’ for his ‘big break’—probably better if he washes the grease off first.”

Carlos noticed the dossier with the kid’s info, lying on a table near the door—Nick had brought it along. He picked it up and idly started leafing through it. Suddenly he stopped and snorted in laughter. “Tommy LeBone? Really? That’s the name the stupid little shit wants to go by?”

“Yeah,” Nick said with a smirk. “From what I can gather, Tommy is his real name, but he picked the last name because he wanted something to really ‘pop’ in the credits, as he put it.”

They both had a good laugh over that, knowing good and well that there weren’t gonna be any credits on the video they were shooting—and the only things about Tommy that were gonna pop were his bones.

As they were laughing, the electric chime went off, indicating someone entering the main entrance. Nick left the room as Carlos returned the papers to the folder. Knowing what was coming, he peeled the white cotton t-shirt, sticky with sweat, from his furry, muscle-bound torso. For a moment the collar snagged on the catch of the gold chain around his thick neck, but it soon came free. Within two minutes, Nick was back, followed by Tommy.

It was easy to recognize him from his photo, although it had evidently been taken some time earlier. His glossy black hair was shorter now, and the bangs were spiked. He was trying to grow a mustache, but all he’d achieved so far was the effect of a dead caterpillar on his upper lip. A pair of “diamond” stud earrings glinted on his earlobes; the stones were much too large to be real.

The kid was slight but not slim; he was about five-foot-seven or so. He was wearing a white t-shirt silkscreened with the image of Che Guevara in black. Below, he sported a pair of sky-blue polyester satin shorts edged in white that hung down past his knees. Further down, his firm calves, dusted with a dark haze of hair, descended into a pair of red and white Nike Air Jordans.

“Tommy, this is Carlos. Carlos, Tommy,” Nick said, getting the introductions out of the way and letting Tommy look around.

The boy did, and liked what he saw. He didn’t have much—or, really, any—experience with hardcore video and the setup looked professional to him. There were two cameras on tripods, and even in his inexperience, Tommy could see that one was for wide-angled shots, while the other could be lifted off its stand and carried about.

The two dudes he was gonna be in the sack with were both hotter than fuck, too. The one guy with the shaved head—he looked downright dangerous, with his bare broad hairy chest, the gold chain with thick links around his neck, his tight jeans and his black harness boots. He looked kinda mean, too, but for some reason, Tommy found that no less enticing.

The other guy, Nick, had short sandy brown hair with a slight curl in it; there was a faint shadow of scruff on his firm cheeks and filling in the dimple on his strong chin. He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt with the collar torn open about halfway down the chest, revealing a thick mass of body fur in the same sandy-brown shade as his hair. A pair of khaki cargo shorts was secured at his waist with a thick canvas strap serving as a belt; it had no buckle but was kept taut by being looped through a pair of steel rings. A pair of yellow leather construction boots, loose and untied, formed the perfect base for his thick, muscled legs.

Nick didn’t look as mean as Carlos, but he was incredibly well-built and radiated an air of hyper-masculine power. Tommy wanted to service Nick badly, but there was something equally alluring in knowing the older man had the physique to snap him like a twig any time he felt like it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

The boywhore was vaguely surprised by the way that this subtle air of sex and danger intensified his own lust, but he was young, horny and shallow, and not into introspection. He was twenty-two, and although no longer an adolescent, his hormones were still stimulating his balls into seething sperm factories.

“So, uh, so whaddaya want me to do?” he asked.

“Strip, boy,” Nick commanded, grinning. He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, letting Tommy get a look as his massive chest and his broad pecs, glistening with sweat, his dark nipples jutting into the air. The kid was practically drooling with excitement as he yanked off his t-shirt and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them easily with his kicks still on. Under the shorts, his thick cock and loaded balls were packed into a black and red jockstrap.

“Keep that on,” Nick said as Tommy reached down to remove the jockstrap. “It’ll turn our viewers on to watch ya die—uh, cum with that on…”

Tommy didn’t hear Nick’s slip of the tongue. Carlos had unzipped his fly, pulling his massive, glistening dick out of his jeans. The boy stood staring, entranced, by the huge tube of manflesh. “Fuuuck…” he whispered—he wanted it in him so bad.

A sound behind him made him turn to see that Nick had shucked off his shorts. He stood nude in front of Tommy, his hairy, bulked-out body lubed with sweat and glittering under the overhead spotlights. The randy homo took one look and found himself literally gasping with sexual excitement and anticipation; a dark moist spot formed on the bulge of his jock and grew as the killers watched.

They exchanged a quick grin; it was lost on the fag. They knew he was hooked. He was theirs to play with and torture and fuck. He wasn’t getting out of the room alive—and long before death claimed him, he’d be begging for it.

“Okay, bitch, get on the bed,” Nick demanded. “Up on yer knees, boy; I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

His dripping dick tenting the elastic pouch of the jockstrap, Tommy hastened to obey. As Carlos powered up the camera and focused it, the smooth young faggot posed on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, the delirious smile on his face showing his happiness at finally getting fucked by two real men—and in a porno, no less!

Just out of the camera’s view, Nick was at a control panel adjusting the lighting. He plunged the room into darkness except for a single overhead spot shining directly down onto the bed, illuminating it—and it alone—brightly.

“Yeah, that’s gonna look hot,” he muttered to himself before raising his voice. “You ready to get reamed, boy?”

“Oh yeah,” the boy moaned, wriggling his body like a dog wagging its tail. Nick approached the bed, his bare feet padding silently across the concrete floor to the section of carpeting laid down for the bedroom set.

“So rough, in fact, that Carlos here is gonna have to hold the camera. I’m gonna want him to get a good close-up when it starts. Don’t worry, though, he’ll still have plenty of chances to let you feel the power of his muscles—especially those big biceps of his. You see ‘em? See those tattoos? Wanna know where he got ‘em?”

With this speech, Nick was almost at the foot of the bed. Carlos had already started the camera, watching the image carefully.

It was perfectly centered on the bed and the bed was hard to lit—harshly spot-lit, with nothing else visible in the surrounding darkness. On the bed, a slim, smooth dark-haired figure on his and knees, his dick stretching out the mesh of his jockstrap pouch, looked behind him nervously; he was startled by something.

He hadn’t realized Nick was as close as he was.

From off-screen, the top’s voice spoke in a bass rumble, “He got that ink in prison, boy. He killed a man. More than one, in fact. That do anything for ya?”

Nick appeared from the darkness, the dramatic lighting cutting his powerful form into bright glints reflecting from sweat-slick muscles and deep dark shadows, some lined with body fur. Gold highlights sparkled in his sandy hair.

Tommy’s eyes grew wide, but his dick throbbed so intensely it was visible on camera. He started to rise up on his knees, but Nick was already climbing onto the bed. “That get ya off, boy? Ya like ‘em dangerous?”

Tommy gulped ominous and spoke with a nervous quaver in his voice. “That’s, uh, yeah, that’s hot man…and y’all can get rough if ya want, but, uh, just don’t do anything to really hurt me, y’know?”

By now Nick was pressed up behind him, his brawny, furry chest against the young homo’s smooth back. Placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and forcing the kid back down to the bed with minimal effort, the strong alpha used his other hand to guide the oozing, purple head of his engorged shaft between the punk’s asscheek directly to his pink, pucker fuckhole. With malicious glee, he bent down and whispered into Tommy’s ear. “’Fraid I can’t make that promise, boy. You’re gonna suffer. You’re gonna get hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

The lithe young pansy blinked his gorgeous blue eyes in confusion. “What?” he asked incredulously, “What was tha—AAAIIIIEEE!!!”

Nick had answered the question by jamming his rod up Tommy’s ass raw, with no lube. The camera picked up the huge grin on his face. The way the slut’s sphincter had resisted his tool, and then finally gave way, letting him slide all the way in, grinding his wiry pubes against the boy’s round, firm asscheeks, scraping the smooth skin like steel wool—it felt fantastic. “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, looking directly into the camera (and speaking loudly to be heard over the fag’s wailing), “It’s been too goddam long since I made a faggot into fuckmeat. Bitch is squallin’ too much, though—Carlos, get over here and shove yer dick down its throat, make it shut the fuck up.”

The wide-angle camera was aimed perfectly at the spot-lit tableau on the bed, the boy hunched over on his face, sobbing loudly, the muscular alpha mounting him from behind, thrusting his cock deep in the kid’s ass, then pulling back—but never withdrawing completely—before ramming his rod back in as far as he could.

Suddenly, Carlos emerged from the darkness on the left side of the frame, walking towards the bed with his back to the camera. The warehouse’s metal roof had been baking in the sun all day and the old AC system hadn’t been able to keep pace—beads of sweat were visible, running down the ex-con’s back. It was impossible to ignore the way his tight jeans cradled his ass or the strong masculine tread of his harness boots on the concrete floor. As he got to the head of the bed, he turned his profile to the lens so that his enormous, erect dick was obvious. Reaching down and grabbing a handful of Tommy’s hair, he yanked the kid’s head up off the bed.

The youth’s face was streaked with tears and twisted into a grimace of pain. “P-please,” he begged, stuttering as he tried to make himself understood without crying out in agony, “Pl-please sto-stop…” He drew another shuddering breath before trying again. “Th-this…not-not what I wa-wanted…it h-hurts, please, it-it hurts so b-bad…”

Carlos reached up under Tommy’s chin, placing his thumb on one side of the punk’s face at the joint where the jaw connected to the skull and his fingers in the same place on the other side. A brutal clenching of his powerful hand forced the slut’s jaw to pop open involuntarily.

“Shaddup, ya fuckin’ perverted faggot,” Carlos jeered and drove his massive dick down the kid’s throat. Using one hand to keep the meat’s mouth pried open, the killer stud clapped his other on the back of Tommy’s head. Carlos wasn’t throatfucking Tommy, he was jacking off with his skull.

“Fuckin’-A, dude,” Nick laughed. “Only thing better’n a dead fag is one that took a nice long time to get that way. This piece of meat might live another forty minutes or so—plenty of time for it to die like pathetic garbage.”

“Aw hell, bro, there’s plenty of meat to go around,” Nick responded. “By the time we’re done with it, all that’ll be left is a bleeding sack of human meat. Hey, back off a bit, dude—don’t wanna choke it out this quick.”

Tommy had heard the beginning of the conversation with horror, but his attention was soon drawn to the fact that with Carlos’s huge rod plugging his esophagus, he was utterly unable to breathe. He tried to jerk his head away from Carlos’s hands, but the sadistic killer was so powerful, he didn’t even notice the slutboy’s attempts to break free. The last thing Tommy consciously heard was the remark about living another forty minutes—death from asphyxiation seemed so imminent that he slipped into panic mode. It was his frantic thrashing that had called Nick’s attention to his plight.

Carlos withdrew his shaft from the cunt’s windpipe, leaving his pulsing, oozing head in the fucker’s mouth. Tommy coughed and slobbered all over it, weeping desperately as he tried to catch his breath.

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

Carlos snatched a handful of Tommy’s hair and yanked his head up, staring coldly into the boy’s snot- and drool-smeared face. “I told ya to shaddup,” he said calmly, then slammed his fist into the youth’s face like a piledriver, hard enough to knock the slut’s head out of his grasp. “UH!” Tommy grunted as the blow drove his head to one side; as he brought it back up, he spit out a canine tooth in a dazed fashion.

“Hell yeah, show the fuckwad who’s boss,” Nick chuckled. “Hey, dude, go get the camera. I wanna get a close-up of this.”

Carlos turned and approached the camera, his massive hog jutting out in front of him from his unzipped fly. Nick pulled his cock out of Tommy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head in the cunt’s rectum. The terrified homo felt the slight abatement in his violent rape, and in a semi-instinctive move, made a break for it.

Scrambling like a scaled cat, Tommy dug his Air Jordans into the bedspread and lunged forward, pulling himself off Nick’s tool and off the bed at the same time. Unfortunately for the panicked queerboy, he hit the ground headfirst with his arms out in front of him; he managed to regain his feet and bolt for the door, but he managed to take no more than two steps before Carlos brutally impeded his progress by decking him in the jaw.

Nick had gotten off the bed and was standing beside it, his buff, toned body glistening with sweat under the spotlight; with his enormous raging erection, he was a perfect image of raw masculinity. He was still aware of the camera, but he wasn’t sure if Carlos remembered it—he didn’t want the ex-con to waste the faggot then and there out of rage.

“Send ‘im over here, bro,” he called to the shirtless, booted fagkiller, winking at the camera as he did. Carlos, his arm pulled back, sweaty, tattooed bicep bulging as he prepared to smash Tommy’s face in—literally—held back the blow. “Huh?” he asked, looking up at Nick.

The hardbodied stud nodded briefly at the camera and Carlos caught on, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his goateed face. “Sure, man,” he drawled, “Here ya go.” He gave the slim pansy a hard shove, sending him flying into Nick’s arms. The latter grabbed the punk with his left hand, drawing his right arm up to his left shoulder and giving the unlucky youth a vicious backhand that split his lips.

Grunting in abrupt pain, Tommy wheeled and collapsed halfway onto the bed, but before he could slide limply to the floor, Nick snatched him up again. “Back atcha, bro!” he called, aiming the kid at Carlos. He planted his foot on Tommy’s ass and with a swift kick sent him stumbling back to Carlos, who caught the little fuck in the face with his elbow, dropping him to the ground with a black eye.

The hairy, well-built convict stooped and grabbed the inert form by the wrist, dragging it forcibly to an upright position. Tommy, too stunned to defend himself, or even whimper, found himself flung back at Nick, who dropped his arms and let the flying slut slam into his furry chest face-first.

The slender fairy bounced off his rapist’s firm, massive pecs like he’d hit a brick wall, falling back to the floor—luckily for him, on the carpeted area—where he lay on his back, writhing in pain and moaning feebly. Unable to open his bruised eyes to more than just slits, he tried to focus them on the hulking muscled god towering over him. He could see the thick, firm legs and the frighteningly huge penis that was dripping hot clear drops of precum, but beyond that, Tommy’s vision went blurry.

He could hear footsteps, but there was something wrong with his hearing, the sounds seemed to be fading in and out. There was raucous laughter that at times seemed very far away, but the well-pounded slutboy was very aware of a second pair of legs near him, encased in tight denim and terminating in black leather boots. Like the other pair of legs, Tommy was unable to see any higher than a fat, dripping cock—although with this one, there was a very faint glint of gold somewhere high up in the distance…

In the camera frame, Tommy was laying on the floor, shuddering in agony. Nick, knowing a good pose when it became possible, drew Carlos to his side and put his right arm around Carlos’s shoulders. Carlos, already able to figure out what was coming, did likewise with his left arm around Nick’s shoulders. He placed one boot on Tommy’s flat, heaving belly and with his index finger, little finger and thumb extended, flashed his right hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out and wagging it. Nick grinned delightedly and placed his bare foot on the mesh pouch of Tommy’s jockstrap, pressing down and making the punk mewl and squirm.

“Dude,” he said, “My balls are startin’ to ache somethin’ fierce. I gotta drain ‘em real soon here, bro—think it’s about time to make us some meat. Do me a favor and get this subhuman cumdumpster up on the bed, wouldja?

Leering, Carlos bent down and grabbed Tommy by the throat, then lifted him single-handedly into the air in a show of brute strength. Once again, the little slut found himself unable to breathe. Carlos turned slightly to one side so the camera could get a clear view of the kid.

Tommy was flailing, his Nikes thrashing in midair. The look of bewildered horror on the young homo’s face spoke volumes; it was obvious that the whoreboy couldn’t understand how a hot twofer fuck had become a nightmare of agonizing torture. Gasping helplessly for air, Tommy’s arms clawed desperately at anything within reach. One of his hands clutched Carlos’s right wrist in a panic-fueled grip, the other pawed at the buff ex-con, snatching at the thick links of his gold chain before sliding down the sweat-slick expanse of his chest to curl in his chest hair.

Then Tommy made a serious mistake—he yanked, tearing free some of the sadist’s body fur.

“You goddam motherfucker!” Carlos roared and threw Tommy bodily into the wall, ten feet away. The kid hit the paneled cinderblock with a wet, meaty thump before bouncing back into the room—and into Carlos’s arms. Grabbing his throat again, the enraged killer, his intense anger making his face glow, lifted the dazed, struggling faggot into the air and slammed him down hard on the bed. Wild-eyed, Carlos quickly glanced around and caught sight of a boom—an extendable metal rod for holding a microphone—out of the corner of his eye. He darted for it, snatching it up and brandishing it; Nick had just enough time to catch him and restrain him before he beat the queerboy to death.

Carlos blinked and took a deep breath. “Yeah, man you’re right. But fuck, this one needs to learn the real meanin’ of pain, dude. It’s gotta beg to be put down in mercy before we’re done.”

Nick flashed him—and the camera—a shark-like grin. “Well fuck yeah, bro, that’s the whole fuckin’ point. By the time we’re done with it, its own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between it and a pile of ground chuck. C’mon.”

They walked back to the bed. As they approached, Tommy managed to pry his eyes open. He was still gagging for air, his body shuddering in pain. He looked up, vainly hoping for some trace of pity in the faces of his assailants. Instead, two hairy, muscular killers loomed terrifyingly over him. The overhead spotlight was blinding; their disgust- and contempt-filled faces were lost in the blur of light—all he could see were thick, bulging muscles, dark patches of wiry body fur and two enormous cocks, each wreathed with pulsing veins and oozing out heavy, viscous drops of transparent precum. What little air he could draw into his lungs was tainted with mansweat, heavily laden with pheromones and the acrid tang of adrenaline-fueled testosterone.

It began to dawn on the helpless little fag that he was in the power of a pair of incredibly strong men. Real men, who thought he was a worthless piece of shit. They weren’t going to make love to him; they were gonna use his body however they wanted to in order to empty their cum-filled balls, and it didn’t matter what he himself thought about it.

And they were gonna kill him—but no, that couldn’t be happening. He was only twenty-two; he couldn’t die yet. They were just trying to scare him. They were gonna beat him and rape him, but despite everything he’d heard already, he simply refused to believe that he was looking death in the face.

Then death bent down and spit on him. “Hold the meat down while I stick my dick in it,” the big sandy-haired brute said. “If it squeals, pound the fuck outta it.”

The buff, tattooed skinhead with the face like Satan grabbed a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drew back his right fist. “G’wan and cry, cunt,” he grinned, “Gimme a reason to beat yer faggot face into hamburger.”

Within ten seconds, Tommy knew he was getting beaten into hamburger. It couldn’t be possible, but it felt like the big man’s cock had doubled in size since he put it in last time. This nightmarish, glassy agony that was slashing at the tender, nerve-rich lining of his rectum, it was like nothing he’d felt yet—he’d only been fucked a couple of times before, but it had felt so good. This, this was horrific, unbearable, he couldn’t…he tried, but there was no way…

Tommy screamed and Carlos, with a single pop to the face, broke his nose. The punk wailed in agony, his shrill screams underscored by the low rumble of his killers’ cruel laughter. “This is what happens to stupid little faggots like you,” Carlos jeered. “You wanted to get fucked, you cumsuckin’ cunt? Guess what—you are so fucked right now, dude.”

Tommy’s eyes were blurred by tears and pain; he couldn’t focus clearly on Nick’s face, just inches away from his own, but he could make out the insane mix of hate and lust in his voice, his and the other one…he couldn’t make out the other one…

Carlos had gone to get the handheld camera. He knew it was time for a close-up, even without prompting from Nick—who was enjoying the brutal fuck with such malevolent glee that he wasn’t giving his attention to camera angles at the moment. The muscular, inked convict made sure he got a good shot of the meat writhing and struggling helplessly under the weight of Nick’s buff, toned body. He let the frame linger on Tommy’s smooth, firm, slender legs wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist, the whore’s red and black Jordans kicking uselessly in the air.

Nick was pinning the kid to the bed, his hands grasping the boy’s upper arms. With his hulking body pressing the slut down, Tommy was not only trapped, he was almost completely immobilized, able only to twist his smooth body, from side to side, his firm chest and flat belly scraping against those of Nick. Despite being lubed by a thin film of panicked sweat, the whoreboy’s soft, silky skin was scratched and abraded by Nick’s coarse, wiry chest hair.

It hurt. It hurt so fuckin’ bad—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore. His sphincter had already been torn, his rectum was starting to relax and accept the enormous tube of flesh buried deep inside it, and although his face was swollen and bruised and he couldn’t breathe out of his crushed, flattened nose, the skinhead wasn’t beating him anymore. Maybe—just maybe—they’d be satisfied with a violent rape and let him go after…

Nick glanced up as Carlos approached with the camera. “Hell yeah, bro, good thinkin’. Get a good shot of his face as I wring his fuckin’ neck.” Turning to look down at Tommy, he spit a wad of phlegm into the tear-stained, horror-filled face. “Hear that? Time to fulfill yer purpose. Time for me to use ya for the only thing yer good for—a meatsack to hold my cum. I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out on camera and dump yer sperm-filled corpse in a trash bin so you can be hauled off to rot like the rest of the stinkin’, maggot-infested garbage. Ya like that, meat? That get ya off? No? Then why’s yer little homo dick all hard and throbbin’, huh, fuckwad? Looky here, guys, the faggot’s gotten its dick outta its jock without even usin’ its hands—fuckin’ perv!” Nick said, rolling to one side so Carlos could focus the lens on Tommy’s thick, pulsing cock—obviously oozing precum; the guilty evidence was matted in Nick’s body fur. The jockstrap’s pouch had clearly been pulled to the side in the struggle. “This one wants it. It’s gonna squeal and cry like a little pussy faggot, but it knows its place and it’s gettin’ off at the thought of bein’ put down with extreme prejudice by a couple of hardbodies.”

Tommy shook his head; it wasn’t a conscious reaction—his mind was blank with panic. They weren’t gonna let him go. He wasn’t gonna get out of here alive. His dreams, his hopes, his plans were all gone; even he didn’t remember them in his cold, soul-searing terror. His entire world, his entire life, was focused with pinpoint clarity on the next few minutes. He was a vain, shallow fairy who’d wanted little more than dick and cash in the immediate future, but even he was able to figure out that what he’d already endured was going to seem like a lover’s caresses compared to the suffering about to come.

Nick guffawed. “Dude, you can break its jaw anytime ya want. Beat it to a fuckin’ pulp as it dies. Stupid fuck needs to take a long painful ride to Hell. Long as it lives long enough for me to empty my balls in it, I don’t care how bad ya fuck it up. But make sure the camera stays on the face. That’s what the viewers want; they’ll jack off over and over watchin’ it die.”

As Carlos shoved the camera into the cunt’s face, chuckling in a cold, merciless tone, Nick let go of Tommy’s arms—and grabbed his neck. He smiled gently down at Tommy.

For one single lucid moment, the hate was gone from Nick’s face and Tommy could see the beautiful face of the sexy, dominant lover he’d always dreamed of. Then Nick started squeezing.

It was like a bear trap had closed on his throat. He hadn’t been prepared; he hadn’t had time to inhale, to fill his lungs with air, and he never would again. Nick’s big, strong hands had instantly compacted the unfortunate youth’s esophagus, the cartilage painfully deforming out of shape. The mindless panic came back; it was a kind of white fog that clouded Tommy’s vision and dulled his senses; he never knew how violently he thrashed about, struggling vainly against death.

His frantic, clawing hands first went to those of Nick’s, but finding the latter clamped around his neck with the relentless strength of iron bands, Tommy reached out, clutching desperately at whatever was within reach. One hand beat against Nick’s huge hairy pecs with as much effect as if he was beating against an oak tree; the other slapping at Carlos’s chest and grabbing at his gold chain.

“No ya don’t, motherfucker,” Carlos growled. Transferring the camera to his left hand, he drove a roundhouse punch straight from his shoulder into the side of Tommy’s face, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as the unlucky fuck’s cheekbone splintered under the force of the impact. “Quit tryin’ ta fight it, fuckhead, yer only makin’ it worse.”

If Tommy had been capable of rational thought, he might have wondered how it could have been worse. Even though he was still being impaled by an enormous rod of manflesh that tore at his guts and ground roughly at his prostate with every agonizing thrust, it seemed to be the least painful part of his suffering—his power-bottom soul was starting to accept the dick and revel in the rough, painful rape. Everything else, not so much.

There was a huge ball of fire in his chest, a kind of burning vacuum that ached vainly for oxygen. The slim, smooth homo writhed and twisted involuntarily, instinctively seeking some way to allow air into his burning lungs. Everything from his neck up was a solid mass of excruciating pain, from his slowly-collapsing throat to his pulped and pounded face to his throbbing brain, swelling with oxygen deprivation.

The wide-angle camera had a perfect view; two sweaty males, locked together in violent, thrusting intimacy, the older, more powerful, more dominant man obviously enforcing his sadistic sexual will on the thrashing, shuddering youth. It also caught Carlos’s hulking, half-dressed form as he leaned in with the other camera.

The handheld’s frame was filled with Tommy’s face. It lingered lovingly on the physical effects of the strangulation on the terrified young homo. The kid’s skin was already so battered and bruised that it was hard to tell when his face began to darken, but the swelling soon turned his split lips and broken nose into a grotesque parody of himself. His thin black mustache, already moist with blood that had trickled from his left nostril, all but disappeared as his face distorted from asphyxia.

As the boywhore whipped his head from side to side in panicked denial, the stones in his stud earrings caught the light and created a twinkling effect on his ears that remained a constant as everything above his neck began to blacken.

“You ready to die, boy?” Nick hissed. “It hurt bad enough yet? Ya wantin’ it all to go away?” He paused as Tommy’s head came to a stop, the dying slut looking up at him with an almost insane gleam of hope in his eyes.

Nick chuckled cruelly. “Tough shit. I ain’t ready to cum yet, so you’re gonna hafta keep sufferin’ till I say yer hurt bad enough. Hey, dude, he ain’t fucked up enough yet.” This last was to Carlos, as Nick drew his legs up under himself, repositioning so he could ram his huge erect cock even faster and deeper into the punk’s ass.

As Carlos laughed and repeatedly slammed his fist into the boy’s face, Tommy learned that things could indeed be worse. The wide-angled camera captured several minutes of footage of two muscular men beating and raping a slim, helpless youth, whose body kicked and jerked with every brutal thrust and blow.

After a while, things began to fade in Tommy’s mind; a gray fog descended, filled with a loud, fast banging. Some part of him knew that the banging noise was his pulse, but as his brain began to die, that rational part grew dimmer. Perversely, as the rational grew dimmer, the sensory grew sharper; as brain death progressed, Tommy’s nerve endings became more sensitive.

The pain of impending death started to blur with the overstimulation of his brain’s pleasure center. His cock, forced erect by the pressure on his prostate, was pressed against Nick’s belly; the killer’s wiry body hair scraped against it rapidly with each pump of his pelvis. To Tommy’s inflamed nerves, it felt like someone was taking a belt sander to the tender underside of his prick.

The pain was phenomenal. It felt like the flesh of his dick was being shredded. It felt like…it felt like he wanted to cum.

Nick noticed the change. “Meat’s startin’ to go,” he grinned up at Carlos—and right at the handheld camera. “Lookit the little faggot—fuckin’ perv still wants dick even as it’s gettin’ whacked.”

“Well fuck, man, that’s all they ever want,” Carlos sneered. “Stupid cunts are so cum-hungry they’ll walk right into a death trap if they think they can get some manseed.” He spit in Tommy’s face, then spoke directly to him. “What, didja think gettin’ our loads would turn ya into a real man, ya fuckin’ pile of fagmeat?”

Even if there was enough left of Tommy to formulate a reply, he wouldn’t have been able to say it. His mouth was plugged with his tongue, so thick and swollen that it forced his jaws apart and protruded, a mound of purple-black muscle, from between his cracked blue lips. Thick streamers of drool bubbled from the boy’s mouth, oozing down his cheeks in a thick white froth that gave the appearance that the faggot had just given a wet, sloppy blowjob.

The light was fading from Tommy’s eyes; they were fixed and bulging, the whites turning bloodshot as millions of tiny blood vessels ruptured within. His hands had stopped flailing randomly; the wide-angle camera clearly captured how one was clenched tightly around Nick’s sweaty, bulging bicep while the other was spread flat on Carlo’s belly as if fondling the ex-con’s ripped abs. His legs were still kicking, but not as violently; they drew up at the knee, then straightened again, the heels of his Nikes carving furrows in the ugly crocheted comforter.

Nick hunched and shuddered as he felt his seed boiling up from his overloaded balls, then he went rigid in explosive orgasm. As his powerful hands clenched involuntarily, he crushed Tommy’s throat, the cartilage cracking and snapping like dry kindling as the esophagus collapsed into a mangled mass of useless bloody tissue.

Rational Tommy was dead but sensory Tommy was still dangling in a nightmarish world of tactile torture that was unable to distinguish pleasure and pain. The horrific agony of his crushed windpipe and larynx and his snapped hyoid bone trigged an intense release in his swollen, tortured scrotum. Tommy’s first death load squirted up between him and Nick, smearing as their chests rubbed together in his agonized throes.

“Aw hell yeah!” Carlos cried, pulling the zoom out to capture Nick’s look of rage as he shot his load and Tommy’s blank, shuddering face as he spent his last few moments on earth ejaculating uncontrollably. Without warning, the convulsing punk twisted violently to the side; as he did, another geyser of sperm erupted from his spasming cock. This one jetted into the air, splattering not just over Carlos’s sweaty, hairy chest, but over his face and the camera lens as well, smearing both with milky cum.

With a loud grunt, Carlos returned the favor, a thick, ropy strand of semen spewing in an uninterrupted flow from his erect shaft. The muscled convict hadn’t so much as touched his dick; he’d shot his wad hands-free the moment Tommy’s spunk had splashed on his chest. His own jizz spattered on the boy’s black, swollen face, blending in with the drool.

“Fuck!” Nick cried again, releasing Tommy’s neck.

In a blinding rage, Carlos tossed the handheld down and leaned forward. Grabbing the back of Tommy’s head in one hand and his chin in another, the muscle-bound killer gave the head a swift, brutal twist, rotating it up and back a hundred and eighty degrees. Tommy’s neck snapped, the vertebrae shattering like shrapnel, tearing the spinal cord to shreds. The corpse went rigid as the massive trauma to the nervous system forced one last spurt of cum from the dead kid’s dick; this flew out with just enough force to clear the bed and spatter on the toes of Carlos’s black harness boots.

For a moment, Nick paused, looking down no longer at Tommy’s black, strangulated face, but at the back of his head. Then he slowly withdrew his cock from the corpse. Even in death, the faggot somehow maintained suction in his fuckhole; Nick’s rod came out with an audible sucking sound. Getting off the bed, he stood beside Carlos, looking down at the dead boy. In a shot from the wide-angle camera that Nick edited into the footage, they both remained standing for a minute, admiring their work. The slim young homo’s cum-drenched corpse was still twitching, his black-and-red Air Jordans scuffling nervelessly on the comforter. Both studs were still heaving with exertion as the overheat spot glinted on their sweat-soaked backs; thick pearly beads of jizz still dripped from their cocks—and the meat’s as well.

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

“So did he, stupid little faggot,” Carlos sneered. He leaned forward as if he was going to attack the corpse again.

“Hey, man,” Nick said, “I wanna get rid of the meat here soon. Go splash some water on yourself and cool off; I’m gonna need a hand gettin’ rid of it and its car.”

Carlos paused. “Yeah, dude, you’re right. Hang on.” He headed to the bathroom. After a few minutes, he returned, his body glistening with moisture. In the meantime, Nick had redressed, pulling on his shorts and slipping back into his construction boots. He’d slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on but the deep tear at the neck revealed that his chest hair was still crusty and matted with the dead boy’s cum.

“Grab the clothes and see if you can find any keys,” Nick said. “I’m gonna take the trash out.” He grabbed the corpse by one quivering ankle, just above the Nike sneaker, and dragged the body off the bed. Tommy’s head had remained twisted around backwards; his face his the floor with a splat. Heading out the door, Nick dragged the body along the floor behind him, not minding the faint trail of blood from the kid’s brutalized face; there’d be time to clean it up later. He was excited; he wanted to clear out the meat and get to working on the video.

As Nick dumped the corpse into the bed of his pickup, Carlos gathered Tommy’s t-shirt and shorts. From the latter, he retrieved both keys and a wallet with forty bucks inside. Carlos pocketed the cash; the young faggot certainly didn’t need it anymore. Following Nick out, he headed towards a ten-year-old Ford Focus with a taped-up taillight. Sure enough, the key he’d found fit—it wasn’t hard to figure out; the only other vehicles in the lot were Nick’s truck and his own Mercedes.

Tossing the clothes in the back, he put the car in gear and followed Nick’s green truck out to the highway, where they headed south towards downtown. Traffic was bad, as it always was at this time of day, and the AC in the cunt’s car was barely functional. Carlos soon found himself sweating again. To keep himself calm, the psycho killer imagined the homo piece of shit already starting to rot under the blue tarp Nick had wrapped around it.

After several road-rage-inducing merges, Nick finally took the Las Vegas Boulevard exit, heading south into downtown. Turning west on Bridger Avenue, he made a sudden right into an alley between Third and Fourth Streets, pulling up next to a large industrial dumpster. Carlos parked behind him and got out.

It took less than thirty seconds to hoist the corpse over the edge of the dumpster and roll it out of the tarp. Within three minutes, they were heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard again and within twenty, pulling into the parking lot of a casino located well to the south of the airport. The left the Focus at the far end of the lot, Carlos climbing into Nick’s truck for the ride back to the warehouse.

Some twenty-four hours later, an unmarked car pulled up in an alley between Third and Fourth. It wasn’t able to get very far down the alley thanks to the two patrol cars and the ambulance already in place, surrounding a dumpster. A fat middle-aged man with a shaggy moustache opened the driver’s door while a taller, thinner man of about the same age emerged from the passenger side.

“Hey, Patterson, what’s up?” the fat one asked the first uniformed cop he came across.

“Me an’ Schweitz was just comin’ back from lunch when we heard the call, figured we’d check it out,” Nuñez said. “Whatcha got?”

“Just another stiff,” Patterson yawned. “You can check it out if ya wanna.”

Nuñez headed for the corpse, already out of the dumpster and lying bagged on a gurney. Schweitz headed after him, but paused when he saw the fat detective open the body bag, recoil violently, and zip it back up. He waited as Nuñez returned quickly to the car.

“So?” he asked laconically.

“Not worth it. Another faggot. Damn, you could smell the cum three feet away once I got that fuckin’ bag open. Goddam corpse was covered in the shit.”

Schweitz snorted with disgust. “Who the fuck bothered to call it in?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Nuñez replied, “But I wish they’d kept their traps shut. We got real people out here gettin’ robbed and killed, and some asshole calls in a dead fag. Like I give a shit who snuffed some fuckin’ homo—they guy should get an award, if ya ask me.”

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

“C’mon, let’s get back. Central can handle this; they’re good at ‘misplacing’ this kinda file. And anyway, I gotta get caught up on some paperwork. Goddam bureaucrats, always comin’ up with a new way to keep a man from doin’ his job, y’know?”

Still bitching, the fat cop backed out of the alley and drove off, wiping the image of the raped and murdered youth from his mind as if the boy had never existed.

I almost missed him. I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past. That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.

It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting. I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning. Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.

I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway. Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him. In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.

At any rate, I gotta load that needs release. I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one. I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.

He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it. I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot. Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach. Soon enough, he glides into view.

Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most. Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length. His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all. His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn. He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.

Yeah, this one would work. This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum. Now I just need a lure.

I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time. He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left. After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me. Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face. He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two. Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer. The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money. The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.

The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke. Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo. Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.

Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure. The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.

I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board. I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.

“Yo! Brah! Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store? I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”

His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction. His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose. He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.

These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.

“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself. They got all kinda stuff. But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”

“Like what?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

“Buy me some beer. I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it. They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

His blush deepens. “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly. Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out. He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.

“Hop in, dude. I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”

With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van. Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in. “Hey, man, I’m Timothy. Well, no, only my mom calls me that. You can call me T-Money.”

What a tool. I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye. Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.

I’m dressed for the hunt. It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs. My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue. Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.

As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss. I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away. Interesting reaction.

“Ya see anything ya like?” I asked in a low voice.

The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever. “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.

I pulled over into the parking lot of a church. In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty. I turned to face the kid. “My dick. You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.

“What?” he cried. “Dude, I ain’t gay.”

“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now. You want me to fuck you good and hard. You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”

The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door. “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit. Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”

“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word. His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly. Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.

“Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard. With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly. “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time. This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent. I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.

I head out of the church lot. I know a place to go; I’ve been there before. It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat. It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night. Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.

I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight. And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there. By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.

A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes. The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry. Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.

I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site. Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty. I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.

Finally, I turn onto a side street. Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal. It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.

One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab. Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors. Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.

I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side. Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door. I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards. He isn’t very big; only about five-eight. And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty. I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.

Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit. The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal. I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing. This one is gonna get a little…messy. The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.

I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.

I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark. It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors. As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up. I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me. My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.

He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken. I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie. He starts trembling. “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”

“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head. “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything. Lemme go grab it.”

What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van. Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it. I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.

Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture. Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him. “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl. “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”

He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril. He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress. His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.

I allow my smile to grow broad. “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock. I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.” I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding. “I was talking about this.”

The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out. It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip. Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.

The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear. “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock. Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow. Ya feelin’ me, brah? You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”

The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering. His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.

He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp. “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man. You—you can p-put yer dick in me. Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”

I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it. After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter. “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”

“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet. I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting. The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade. A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds. Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too. The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.

I’m pleased. I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.

Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him. “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.

I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs. This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch. “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.

“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”

He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass. My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.

After a moment, he speaks with a sob. “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me. Okay? Please?”

There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb. I stand up and grin. He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes. I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.

Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes. The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it. Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad. Real bad. I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion. When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.

For good.

“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod. I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees. Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.

“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass. I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick. Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines. I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.

“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”

The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs. I laugh at his pain. “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy. Ain’t no one around for miles. Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”

I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop. He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans. “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”

All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen. Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole. Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.

I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick. It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard. I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection. I grab hold of it and start jacking.

“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear. “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha? You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right? You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”

“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing. His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction. I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.

I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston. He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame. I want it to hurt him. It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels. Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back. “I said look up, asswipe.”

His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face. Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him. “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”

I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand. He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit. He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance. He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.

And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him. The resistance it what feels good. I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool. Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole. In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.

“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face. “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap. I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch. Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”

“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in. You’re getting loose, asshole. Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out. How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore? What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school? Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain. I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe. I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft. Remember that, boy. You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”

And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.

I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before. I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas. And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.

In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards. If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.

The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped. The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist. “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony. He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him. Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.

It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this. And I’m the man to give it to him.

I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum. The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight. It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering. But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.

“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing. “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes. Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh? That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right? Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”

I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter. The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.

“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream. “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know? You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!” I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal. His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.

“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”

“Stop?” I guffaw. “I’m just gettin’ started. Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.” I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas. It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.

“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.

“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.

“Wrong answer,” I say. And it is. I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van. Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage. Yet.

“Where’s it gonna go, boy? What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade? What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?” I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick. “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again. Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”

The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying. On the other hand, shock is setting in. That makes it hard to keep his attention. He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.

I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum. I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones. There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right. I wanna see how this will work on live meat.

I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead. But that’s a story for another time. At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here. With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.

The angle of the blade is the most important thing. It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin. The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact. When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder. The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.

Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint. The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.

This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed. Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering. His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Hell. I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so. Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.

His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out. The pain is too great to be released that way. “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot. Now you’re working my cock right. All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight. That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”

His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur. He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip. Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.

“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror. “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…” He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.

I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position. When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised. The other hand still has the knife. I hold it up in front of him. This is the first time he’s seen it up close.

“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen. “That’s your blood dripping off of it. See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations? That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot? Sure ya wanna end the fun now? I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”

His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity. His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse. The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.

Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad. “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat. I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open. Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer. Sound like fun? Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”

Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune. I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs. “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”

“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer. “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.” Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.

His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife. Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush. The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.

“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm. The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.

As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue. He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in. “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”

At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat. The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.

His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat. All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur. His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.

I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.

I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more. He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.

I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else. I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.

“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood. “You want this. Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are. I’m about to blow, cunt. Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”

He doesn’t give me a chance to finish. His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.

I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense. Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass. I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly. As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

The meat is gone. His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe. Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor. One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

T-Money is cashed out.

I pull out and roll over on my back. Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good. I just need a little nap…

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long. I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds. He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole. His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

Goddam, I’m hard again.

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck. I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back. From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft. Fuck yeah.

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus. The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod. I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body. The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

This time, I have no warning. Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs. I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat. Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

Time to dump the meat. I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer. The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail. The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks. I’m still not satisfied. I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting. It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls. I bend over the corpse and grin. “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer. Hope it was worth it.”

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum. If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom. I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well. I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

I left it there and climbed into the van. Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van. Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side. I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions. Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway. I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi. It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

It makes me feel even better. I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

The words were appended to the photo of a young man’s torso—lean and smooth, with some muscles but not overly buff or developed. Dark areolae surrounded the nipples, two hard plugs of pale flesh. It was a body that would appeal to a lot of dudes.

It certainly appealed to Joe.

He’d been skimming through a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior kills—he couldn’t remember which one; after a while, the meat tends to blur—when he came across the pic. He knew the moment he read the words that this little motherfucker was gonna be his bitch tonight.

He responded to the ad with nothing but a photo of his own torso. No words were needed; his massive, fur-covered pecs and ripped hairy abs spoke for themselves. And given how fast the horny little cunt replied, they didn’t just speak, they commanded.

“Hell yeah dude u got the power to stick it in me and make it hurt? Want ya to hurt me”

For a moment, Joe started blankly at the small screen, unable to believe his luck. When he finally responded, it was with a broad, shark-like grin and an erection so hard it hurt. “Yeah boy I’ll hurt u good I promise”

He’d be as good as his word—it was a promise he’d keep with pleasure.

The reply was swift. “Cool cum now”

Along with it was a map location file. Joe opened it and noted with interest the neighborhood; most of the houses in that area were million-dollar-plus mansions. This should be interesting, he decided; clearly this kid was living with his parents or other relatives. At least it wasn’t a gated community, and it wasn’t too far away—only about twenty minutes if he took the freeway.

Joe didn’t need any time to prepare. The image reflected in his bedroom mirror was adequate for the purpose; it showed a dark-haired, muscular stud in black clothing—a t-shirt that was two sizes too small, so skin-tight that his large nipples were clearly defined on his broad chest. Below the waist (circled by a thick leather belt with a large buckle of dull, burnished metal), his jeans were equally revealing. His crotch bulged and a thick ridge was traceable halfway down his thigh. The mirror didn’t reach down far enough to reflect his slightly worn harness boots.

Pulling up the app, he texted “OMW” and headed out the door. Outside, the summer night was hot and unusually humid. Even on the highway, with the T-top of his Camaro open, a slight gleam of perspiration burnished Joe’s bulging biceps and hairy forearms. He stepped on the gas and headed into the dark night.

The address wasn’t in a gated community, but the house he was headed to had gates—luckily, they were open. A long drive led up to massive, rambling house, its exterior done in a half-timbered, faux-Tudor style that owed nothing to historical accuracy. He followed the driveway past the courtyard that contained multiple garages, around to the main entrance, where he parked and exited the car. No lights showed anywhere in the façade of the house.

The double front door sat in darkness under a deep porch, but the darkness wasn’t so intense that Joe failed to spot a security camera aimed directly at him. He paused on the doorstep, considering his options. The idea of being caught on camera was disturbing—but on the other hand, he’d probably been on video since he’d driven onto the property.

If that was true, he needed to get inside in any case and see if he could find the recording; he wasn’t about to leave that kind of evidence behind. He knocked at the door and was surprised to find it open immediately.

The figure in the doorway was lit from behind by a dim lamp in the rear of the foyer. It took Joe a moment to focus on the lithe, lean form which soon resolved into a youth with tousled blonde hair. The boy was shorter than Joe, with a snub nose and freckles across his cheeks. His smooth, slim abdomen was bare; the only clothing he wore was a pair of lounge pants—the striped flannel looked like pajama bottoms. His feet, in white ped socks, seemed to slide on the polished parquet flooring of the vestibule.

“Come in,” the kid said abruptly, glancing out the door before shutting it hurriedly, “Quick, before anyone sees ya.”

Since the nearest neighbor was at least a heavily-landscaped half-mile away, Joe grinned at the boy’s paranoia. The youth noticed the look of contemptuous amusement and blushed.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered shamefacedly, “But seriously, dude, I gotta keep this on the DL. My folks’ll freak if they find out; they don’t even know I like dick. I mean, they’re on vacation, but I gotta be careful, y’know? I even shut off the security cameras so nothin’ will be recorded.”

That was what Joe needed to know. He could let the beast out tonight, and let it rage unchained.

“This way,” the kid said, heading up the stairs. “I’m Bart, by the way.”

Joe grunted his reply and followed, the thump of his boots echoing in the cavernous stairwell. Like the rest of the house, the upper hall was shrouded in in darkness. Bart led the way towards an open double door from which an orange light flickered.

Once inside the doors, Joe looked around and realized he was in the largest bedroom he’d ever seen. On the far right, in a large window-filled bay, was a huge TV with a pair of recliners in front of it. To the immediate right was a California king waterbed sheathed in plush mauve velour.

Just opposite the door was a large gas fireplace, already lit. The kid was standing in front of it, on what appeared to be a bear-skin rug; the rug was surrounded by a divan and a couple of chairs, all upholstered in thick mohair. On the left was a large cheval mirror that appeared to be an antique. Its handsome appearance was somewhat jarring, given the off-putting décor of the rest of the room.

The older man approached the boy, who was standing with his back to the fireplace. As he got closer, he could almost feel the heat from the lust in the kid’s eyes was they slid over his well-defined form.

“Strip, boy,” Joe said. “Let’s see what ya got.”

As Bart reached for the drawstring at the waist of his flannel pants, he turned his large blue-gray eyes up to Joe and grinned. “Goddam, dude—I wanna see what you got, too. Bet a big fucker like you’s got the tackle to tear my ass up good.” He dropped the pants as he spoke, revealing his legs, his firm thighs smooth while his calves were shaded with a faint golden fuzz. Six inches of thick but semi-soft boycock dangled from a tangled mass of dirty blond pubes.

Smirking, Joe peeled off his shirt, revealing his powerful, V-shaped torso, wide across his broad, hubcap pecs and narrowing to his tight, firm waist. The fur on his sculpted abs darkened and thickened as it descended his flat belly in a black treasure trail that vanished behind the dull burnished steel of his belt buckle. Above the dark forest on his pecs, the firm twin mounds of his large nipples protruded, hard in the open air.

At the sight, Bart’s dick stiffened and enlarged. His eyes followed Joe’s hand as it descended to his crotch below the belt buckle and grasped the zipper. Slowly and longingly, the youth’s eyes lowered with the zipper itself, achingly tracing its path until the fly was wide enough for Joe to reach in and extract his enormous shaft.

Joe laughed out loud. “Treat ya like shit? You are shit, faggot. And I’m gonna make damn sure you know it.”

The blond youth wriggled like a bitch in heat. “Yeah,” he squealed, “Oh fuck yeah…”

Joe had reached the bearskin rug; turning so that the orange glare of the gas fireplace was out of his eyes, he was able to note a few more details about the room—the faint tiger-stripe pattern on the velour bedspread, the utter incongruousness of the saccharine Thomas Kinkade print on the far wall…

…and the useless and unused set of elaborate cast-iron fire tools set to one side of the fireplace. Turning his back to the kid, he went to the set and pulled out the poker, holding it up and examining the brass-handled shaft of iron.

Whirling back to the boy with a broad smile on his face, he realized that his control was slipping. There wasn’t gonna be any foreplay with this little fucker. “Ya ready, fag?” he asked and without waiting for a response, swung the poker like he was aiming for the fences.

It connected with Bart’s left flank with a loud thump, knocking the kid to his knees. The boy screeched in pain and clutched his side. He looked up a Joe, his expression a confused mix of pain and angry bewilderment; his large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

“Hey,” he gasped in ragged breaths, “Whatdja do that for?”

“You needed to be punished, right, bitch? Your own words. So I’m gonna make damn sure you get punished real good—ya get me, cocksucker?”

Panic gripped Bart’s hormone-drenched mind as he writhed in searing pain; despite this nightmarish turn of events, his dick was somehow still hard. His rich suburban white-boy psyche hadn’t been able to fully assimilate the onslaught of violence; some part of him still seemed to be expecting hot raunchy mansex. At least, his hot throbbing cock seemed to expect it.

Joe was still planning on hot raunchy mansex as well—he just wanted to tenderize the meat a little first.

Bart rolled over and climbed awkwardly to his feet, whimpering and blubbering and unable to bend his right knee. “No,” the young blond faggot sobbed, “No, not this—I just wanted your dick, dude, please…”

The lean, smooth youth, his tear-streaked face ashen with shock, tried to move backwards in a clumsy hopping motion. Surprisingly, he managed to remain vertical even as Joe approached. The alpha tossed the poker down onto one of the sofas as he passed by—both hands were free when he reached out and grabbed hold of the unfortunate punk.

Joe held Bart by the upper arms, lifting him straight into the air until the kid’s white ped socks dangled a good four inches above the floor. He brought the little pansy’s face up to his, and for the first time, Bart got a really good look at the seething rage boiling in the eyes of the stud—the sexy stud he’d thought would make this a perfect evening.

The fact that the rage was obviously entwined with a smoldering lust somehow only seemed to make the situation more terrifying. And worst of all—his own dick was still so pulsatingly erect it ached as precum trickled from his enlarged piss slit.

“You wanted me to spit on ya? You wanted me to treat ya like shit? You got it, ya cumguzzlin’ motherfucker; I’ll treat ya like the piece of shit you are. Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m gonna make damn sure you not only know exactly what a worthless faggot you are—you’ll feel it.”

Bart shook his head numbly, hearing the words but refusing to understand them. He couldn’t refuse to listen to the pain, though—the throbbing in his left side, up under the ribs, the horrific pain in his right knee, the increasing ache in his shoulders as they were forced to support his entire body weight…none of it could be ignored. The kid moaned incoherently as he kicked vainly in midair.

“No…no…not this…not here…not me…” he mumbled in stupefied shock.

“You, here and now—and this,” Joe snarled. Bart experienced a violent sensation of movement that lasted only a split second before a sudden shattering impact that left him dazed and shuddering in agony on the floor. It took more than a sixty seconds for the realization that he’d been thrown into—and through—the cheval mirror. Groaning loudly, the slim, smooth youth was rolling on top of small shards of mirror glass, grinding them into his back.

“Ya like that one, cunt?” Joe chuckled, strolling in Bart’s direction. “I sure did. Teachin’ little fucks like you their place always gets me hard. You gotta a lot of learnin’ to do in the next hour, you faggot slut. You like pain, ya disgusting little perv? Then suffer, scumbag!”

Reaching Bart as he spoke, Joe raised his foot and placed it on Bart’s crotch. Without the slightest hesitation, the sadistic alpha applied pressure, grinding the horny, hormone-riddled youth’s cum-filled ballsack under his bootheel. The boyslut’s moaning spiraled up into the piercing squeal of a terrified pig.

“Aw, yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Joe chortled. “Ya feelin’ me, boy?” He pressed down, crushing Bart’s thick boycock under the sole of his boot. The oozing ridge of flesh remained erect despite the intense pain—Bart screamed in agony until his voice cracked, but was still aware of his unaccountably rigid tool.

The brutal stud ground down on the shrieking punk’s scrotum; for a few terrifying seconds, Bart’s testicles were in such excruciating pain that he thought they really would burst. Then suddenly the inexorable pressure was gone. It was such a relief that the boy almost passed out; the pain in his knee was practically forgotten. It didn’t last long.

Joe struck out with his strong, muscled leg, his steel-toed boot catching the prone slut on the hip. It was a swift, vicious kick, with enough force to flip the writhing whoreboy over onto his stomach, revealing the multiple lacerations from mirror shards on his back. “Fuckin’ cunt,” the cruel alpha muttered.

Bart was in deep fear. This hadn’t worked out like he’d planned at all. He was just gonna find a hot stud and get some dick tonight before his folks got back tomorrow; instead, he was on the floor in nightmarish pain and his parents’ bedroom had morphed from a passion pit to a scene of brutal violence. He didn’t—wouldn’t—follow the scenario to its logical conclusion, but he knew he had to get out before things got any worse. Unsteadily, he rose to his hands and knees. Well, one knee. He still couldn’t get the right one to bend right; it hurt too much to try. He made a motion towards the door in a wobbly crawl—and then he heard Joe’s quietly mocking voice behind him.

“Tryin’ to fly, little bird? Maybe it’s time to clip a wing.”

Bart turned his head and looked up as the buff sadist walked up to him. Despite the way tears had blurred his vision, he could see the tall man looming over him with desperate clarity. The dude’s enormous hog was dangling over him, dripping hot beads of precum into the kids’ blond hair. Beyond the huge hairy expanse of muscled chest, the hard, handsome face looked down on him, glowing with a bizarre mixture of lust and incandescent contempt.

It was terrifying and erotic; he’d have pissed himself if his dick wasn’t so hard.

Then Joe stepped kicked at the queerboy’s left leg, making him fall flat to the floor. Stepping up to where Bart’s arms were stretched out on the floor above his head, the sick stud placed his big black boot in the middle of the boy’s right forearm, halfway between the hand and the elbow.

Smiling cheerfully, but without saying a word, the powerful alpha bent down, grabbed the boy’s right wrist. His biceps bulging, the muscled sadist pulled upwards with a mighty jerk. There was a loud double snapping sound, like tree branches breaking, as Joe bent the fucker’s arm to ninety degrees, shattering the radius and ulna almost simultaneously.

Bart tried to scream; the cold, glassy pain of fractured bone tore through his lean, tortured frame. He opened his mouth, instinctively taking a lungful of air, but before the pent-up shriek could escape, there was a flash, a violent impact, and the young slut slumped to the floor—not completely unconscious, but lost in a dark haze, shot through with flashes of agony like bolts of lightning.

Joe chuckled; the kick he’d aimed at the faggot’s head had connected perfectly with the asswipe’s jaw. “That oughtta keep ya quiet for a bit, dickwad,” the older man smirked as he walked away, heading for the huge waterbed.

When he reached the bed, Joe sat on the velour bedspread; crossing his legs, he slowly pulled his left boot off, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump. Across the room, the kid flinched at the sound. Joe, stripping the white, calf-high tube sock from his leg, kept his eye on the punk as the latter began slowly and painfully wriggling his way towards the door. No need to rush; there was no way the badly abused meat was gonna be able to reach the door before Joe was done gettin’ naked.

And if he did, were was the little shit gonna go? The brutal alpha had made sure his fucktoy was too badly fucked up to make it down the stairs.

Bart was unable to think that logically; he was driven by a reflexive drive to flee imminent danger. But it hurt to move, it hurt so fuckin’ bad… How did this happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t meant it about the pain, please, dear God, he hadn’t really meant—please, no, no more pain…

He’d managed to squirm some four feet across the room before he heard the unmistakable thud of the dude’s other boot hitting the floor. Moaning in terror, the lean, smooth boy tried to increase his speed but only managed to intensify his pain. He inched along on his belly, his long hard cock scraping uncomfortably across the wood floor. Every movement of his limbs sent jagged shockwaves of suffering through his slim firm body as his shattered kneecap was pressed against the boards under him. Even worse was the searing torture as the splintered ends of broken bones ground together in his arm.

Behind him, Joe stood up, peeling his tight jeans off his thick, muscles legs. Folding the faded denim neatly, he placed them on the bed, next to his leather belt. The belt, though, he picked back up before heading toward the shuddering, crawling mass of battered flesh.

Without his boots, Bart couldn’t hear Joe coming closer, but he could feel the powerful tremors of the bulked-out stud’s footfalls. They were coming closer, oh holy fuck, this crazy motherfucker is getting nearer—

And then he was there. Joe bent down and looped the belt around Bart’s throat before the kid realized what happened. The towering killer whirled, jerking the helpless punk around and dragging him back towards the fireplace. Bart’s airway wasn’t completely constricted but it was cinched off enough that it cut off the agonized scream building in his chest.

Joe bent down and picked up the poker again as he passed the sofa on the way back to the fireplace; Bart, being dragged along on the floor behind him, saw the action but was suffering too badly to assign any significance to it.

Once he reached the bearskin rug, Joe spun around, flinging the lean, limp boyslut onto the center of the rug and whipped the belt from around his throat. As the raw leather on the inside of the belt was torn away, it took the top layer of skin with it, leaving an angry red welt of raw flesh around Bart’s neck.

Joe tossed the belt aside—it landed on the sofa in the same spot the poker had been—and stood over the smooth young boy. Bart was writhing in excruciating pain; he’d been dragged and thrown around like a sack of potatoes—not like a human being with internal injuries and multiple broken bones. Even the wood floor bore witness to Bart’s torment; it was streaked with blood that trickled from the lacerations on his back.

On his back, groaning fitfully, the dazed homo opened his eyes, focusing blearily on the alpha stud towering over him. Joe was nude, his cock magnificently erect and jutting out a good eight inches in front of him, hot transparent drops of precum seeping from the engorged head. Beyond the huge hard shaft, the killer’s torso widen from the tight waist up to the dark forest of fur clinging to the broad and powerfully muscled chest. And above that, the merciless glare of hate, contempt—and somehow, lust…

“No…” Bart whispered in a croak as Joe lowered himself, grinning.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Time to take it in the ass, cunt.”

On his knees, Joe grabbed Bart’s legs and forced them apart. Without a pause—and without even so much as spitting on it—he rammed his enormous tool into the kid’s quivering fuckhole. The thick, vein-wrapped dick tore open the boy’s clenched sphincter like tissue paper before ripping its way through his colon and lodging deep in his guts.

After all he’d endured, Bart had thought he’d gotten jaded to the pain. He was wrong. Holy fuckin’ shit, was he wrong. For a brief, insane moment, the slut thought someone had jammed a steel umbrella up his ass and opened it. He shrieked so intensely that his voice cracked again; his mouth was open, but only a croaking, gasping noise emerged.

Still unable to control his breathing or his voice, Bart could only stare up at Joe, his mouth and his blue-gray eyes open wide in shock and horror—and his innards full of mancock. He was finally getting fucked by the hot stud, just the way he wanted, but he no longer wanted it.

Joe knew it. It just made him hornier and more vicious. “This what you were lookin’ fer, cunt?” he said with malicious glee. “This what ya wanted when you asked for someone to hurt ya? Gotta tell ya, fag, the moment I saw yer add I knew I was gonna be makin’ you into fuckmeat tonight.”

Bart was shaking his head in denial—not of Joe’s words; he wasn’t in an adequate condition to comprehend or process the sense of what was being said to him. It was a denial of reality, of the horrific universe of pain in which he found himself. But the agony was too intense to be denied, and that was the reality that was etched in tense lines across the youth’s taut, tortured face.

As he relentlessly pounded Bart’s ass, the brutal alpha knew shock was setting in; the boy wasn’t listening anymore. And he didn’t want that. The little fucker wasn’t meat yet; there was still plenty of time for a good mindfuck. All he needed to do was grab the homo’s attention.

The loud smack of flesh on flesh merged seamlessly with the punk’s grunt of pain as his lips were split under the impact of Joe’s blow. His head rocked back and stuck the floor violently but the bearskin rug cruelly provided enough padding to prevent Bart being knocked out. As his head rebounded, it was met with another line-drive blow straight from Joe’s shoulder; this one was rewarded with a loud crunch as the boywhore’s nose was crushed.

The kid’s lean body, bathed in sweat wrung from his physical torment, jerked rhythmically as Joe continued to force his massive hog up Bart’s torn, bleeding rectum. The young pansy was dazed from the sadist’s powerful punches; he was stunned and limp in an excruciating aura of suffering.

The muscular alpha leaned down and whispered into Bart’s ear. He was close enough that despite his flattened, bloody nose, the kid could still smell his rank, powerful mansweat, laden with testosterone. Bart brought up his left arm—his right was lying uselessly by his side, bent into an impossible shape—and tried to brace himself, placing his palm flat on Joe’s chest. It was a futile gesture of protest; it had no impact on his assailant.

Bart could only curl his fingers in his torturer’s chest hair and hang on as the top raped his ass and fucked his mind. “If ya liked that, you sick fuck, yer gonna cream when ya find out what I got planned for ya. I’m gonna snuff you, faggot. I’m gonna kill you. You’re gonna die here, tonight, with my cock buried in your guts. Don’t that sound fuckin’ hot? Hell yeah, cunt, time to die!”

Bart moaned faintly. The pain of the beating radiated through his lean, fit body, but the searing agony of the huge tube of manflesh, barbed with thick veins, that impaled his guts was what he was suffering from the most. This pain was alive and sentient, it tore its way through his tender innards, mercilessly keeping pressure on his prostate—and keeping him achingly erect.

“Yer dick is oozin’” Joe guffawed. “That gets ya off, huh? Yer just lovin’ the thought of gettin’ offed by a real man—ha! Fuckin’ piece a’ shit faggot—all you cocksuckers deserve to be killed, an’ all y’all know it, too. Every homo I snuff cums as it dies. You ain’t gonna be no different, motherfucker. I’m gonna put you down and yer gonna blow your fuckin’ load, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my dick.”

With his cock still buried balls-deep in the battered and broken boy, Joe rose up on his knees, turned, and picked up the poker. Straitening himself, he held it up horizontally in front of Bart, then slowly lowered it until it touched his neck—a bar of iron running across the trembling boy’s throat.

Bart could feel the cold metal pressing against the skin. He knew what was coming but refused to consciously acknowledge it. That didn’t stop the fear that was building with him, though; Joe could see the terror in the boy’s eyes. The buff killer grinned and applied pressure.

The poker sank into Bart’s throat like a garrote, just above the larynx. As it pressed deeper into his flesh, it deformed his esophagus more and more, stressing the cartilage and closing off the airway. Bart’s crushed nose had already been interfering with his ability to breathe; now, with each passing second, it was becoming more impossible for him to draw breath. Fear turned to panic.

Joe recognized the symptoms and braced himself. He’d already done a good job of hobbling the fuckmeat while he was tenderizing it; the cunt only had one good arm and one good leg. Even so, there is a strength in frenzied desperation that can momentarily compensate for the most intense agony.

Joe leaned back and held on; both his hands were on the poker as he forced it into the punk’s neck, one on each side of the head. While he could have let go with one hand and still kept some pressure on the metal shaft, it wouldn’t have been as evenly applied and he didn’t want to give the meat an inadvertent chance to draw air. Besides, it wasn’t like the little shit could actually hurt him, even in the depths of panic. Nor could he squirm away—he was pinned to the bearskin rug by Joe’s huge engorged cock.

The muscled alpha jerked his head up and back, out of the range of the kid’s left hand which had come up, clawing and fluttering around his face like a startled bird. Curling his toes, the hulking sadist flexed his powerful thighs and ram-rodded his swollen tool deep into the meat’s fuckhole. The veins on the thick tube of flesh rode over the helpless youth’s prostate like the ridges on a ribbed condom. The boy responded with a dramatic increase in precum; the steady stream that emerged from the purple tip left a smeared trail in the body fur as the homo’s dick slapped and slid against his rapist’s flat, firm belly.

As the last remaining space in his windpipe was closed off, Bart’s labored breathing became a shrill squeal, then stopped for good. His strained face, already bruised enough to make recognition difficult, began to darken and swell. Now his panic reached a point near dementia—now, even searing agony wasn’t enough to penetrate the vortex of asphyxiation-driven terror.

Bart turned into a writhing animal, flailing in blind panic. He beat against Joe, his left hand balled into a fist, his useless right hand flopping as the right arm thrashed; the excruciating agony of the broken bone ends grinding together having no effect in Bart’s mindless fear. Both of the meat’s legs were wrapped around Joe’s tight waist, kicking in the air— and despite the sheer torture of the slut’s shattered right kneecap, the right leg was flung with such force that the ped sock flew off, a white ball of cotton that landed on one of the chairs.

Bart was finally getting what he wanted—the fuck of a lifetime by someone who was willing to hurt him the way he needed to be hurt. It was a shame it hurt so much more than he’d anticipated that he was only vaguely aware he was being fucked at all—but it was what he deserved.

And his hard cock proved it, straining, glistening, erect, and as purple as Bart’s face.

“Ya know what happens when ya die?” Joe whispered to the shuddering meat in a low, erotic tone, as the poker sank even deeper into his neck. “Your asshole starts to spasm. As your brain begins to die, your body will shudder and convulse. It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my cock. Ain’t that cool? Yer gonna suffer the way all you little fuckin’ faggots need to, and you’ll give your worthless life meaning by milking out my load as you die. Just lay back and lemme snuff yer homo ass, bitch.”

Bart stared at Joe, his eyes bulging with hypoxia and shock. The cute, snub-nosed blond was almost unrecognizable. The meat’s face was swollen and black, the tongue protruding horribly, surrounded by foamy drool. The whites of the eyes were turning red as tiny blood vessels started to rupture within.

The dying boy heard Joe’s words; his brain was starting to shut down, but there was still enough of him left to understand what had been said to him. Images flickered through his fading mind; the romantic shadows that the gas fireplace cast on the bearskin rug, the shattered remains of the cheval mirror—how was he gonna explain that to his folks?—the online photo he’d received of a hairy, muscular, V-shaped torso that has inspired such lust in him. It was the torso of the man who was murdering him.

And it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. Dying didn’t feel good; it wasn’t gentle or peaceful—it hurt like fucking hell. Even the pain of bruised flesh and broken bones faded into the background as the suffering youth felt his lungs strain to function, a fiery pressure like nothing he’d had to endure before. But after a few seconds, it was surpassed by the pressure in his head.

Bart knew his face was swollen; he knew his eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out—he could feel it. All of it. Every agonizing second of it. His head was swelling; the pressure within was phenomenal. He didn’t understand why his skull didn’t just burst; the pain was beyond human endurance, and that pounding—that sledgehammer pounding in hear ears and inside his cranium, getting faster and faster…

But somehow, even in the depths of his nightmarish suffering, the slender young cockpig remained aware of the massive dick in his ass, and of his own hard tool, pressed between his sweat-slick, slender body and the hard, muscled form of his killer. As he lost control of his limbs, as the overwhelming pounding of his pulse in his ears reached an insane tempo, he still knew he was being banged like a cheap whore.

White foam trickled down the cunt’s black, puffy cheeks. His left hand no longer grabbed at Joe’s face; it was stroking the side of the alpha’s head in an almost loving caress as Bart’s desperate fight for life faded into a feeble, nearly gentle touch.

“You’re dyin’, motherfucker,” Joe whispered. “Yer lights are goin’ out. Mommy and daddy are gonna come home and find yer worthless, fucked-out ass right here in the middle of their bedroom. They’re gonna see you got beaten and used like the homo cunt ya are.”

Bart nodded, but he wasn’t replying to Joe. He’d reached a tipping point; enough of his brain had died off that he wasn’t coming back—he was starting to convulse. Even if Joe removed the poker, Bart would still end up a vegetable, a brain-dead sack of meat. Sadly for the boy, though, there a piece of him still left aware, a tiny piece of trapped sentience doomed to witness his own death.

Joe could feel the change coming over the meat; he was too experienced in boysnuff not to know what was coming. “Oh hell yeah,” he muttered in sexual anticipation, “Now yer startin’ to work my tool. C’mon, faggot, lessee if we can make ya kick real good—the more you suffer, the harder I cum!”

His face twisted into a hate-filled snarl, Joe shoved forward, his thick biceps bulging and glistening with sweat as he forced the iron rod deep into the queerboy’s neck. Bart hacked and choked, a huge bubble of drool erupting past his swollen tongue, as the poker crushed his esophagus with a wet crackling sound, like someone tearing apart gristle. His protruding, blood-red eyes stared into Joe’s with one last look of horror and despair before rolling back into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white showing under the fluttering lashes.

And then the convulsion began. The small corner of awareness inside Bart had no memory capability; it couldn’t recall Joe’s promise that he would suffer horrific pain during his death throes. It was still capable of suffering the pain, though and it did. The unlucky boyslut’s last few seconds on earth were nightmarish.

The meat arched its back, squeezing its hard cock against Joe’s abdomen and the left hand clutched Joe’s right shoulder in an iron grip. The left leg wrapped tightly around Joe’s waist and he could feel the smooth right thigh pressing against his hip—the right calf bent outward grotesquely at the ruined knee. Similarly, the right arm slapped against Joe’s left arm but the hand itself dangled, limp and useless, to the side, jerking randomly as the slim but strong body convulsed violently.

“Shit, you worthless punk,” Joe moaned between gritted teeth, “Keep that shit up, yer gonna get my load.” As the youth convulsed and shuddered under him, the rippling spasms that traveled along the inside of the rectum had a suctioning effect on Joe’s huge shaft; he’d plugged the kid’s colon so completely that the rectum itself was stretched and taut around the massive member, like a condom. Every dying quiver of rectal musculature stroked the sadist’s hog. It felt kinda like getting a handjob and a blowjob simultaneously—and the fact that he had to snuff a fag to feel it only made it more erotic.

As the sperm in his hot, puckered balls began to seethe, Joe grunted. He was losing control himself; in a moment, he’d be shuddering violently himself in orgasm. Not yet, though—the motherfucker was still alive—the meat still needed to know that it was dead—

—then, with a loud, inarticulate cry, Joe jerked and bucked powerfully, driving the poker so forcefully into Bart’s throat that the punk’s head popped forward with the sickening sound of shattering vertebrae. For Bart, it was a bolt of lightning; there was an undefinable sensation of great heat and great pain. For Joe, it was an electric shock that raced through his body and trigged an intense orgasm.

Jets of cum erupted from the killer alpha’s engorged cock, splashing hot manseed deep inside the meat. The meat responded; in the last moments of life, the hot wet geyser in the meat’s ass, the incessant pressure on its prostate and the devastating blow to the nervous system all combined to force a savagely powerful explosion of spunk from the corpse.

The last nerve signals that were transmitted to Bart’s brain were those of his orgasm—but the spinal cord was torn and damaged, so the signals were corrupt. The unfortunate youth could only interpret them as searing pain, as if molten metal or liquid magma was being forced along his urethra; he was too brain dead to know he was cumming longer, harder, and more intensely than he ever had in his short, wasted life.

Joe knew it, though, and could feel its heat and intensity as a solid stream of boycum splattered up his belly and onto his chest, the pearly seed matting his dark chest hair. Load after load of steaming semen splashed across his pecs as both killer and meat continued to jerk and grind against each other’s sweat-and cum-sticky bodies.

After a few minutes, Joe was able to get better control of himself; the magnitude of his orgasm kept him shuddering for a bit longer as he strained to empty his balls. At the same time, the convulsions of the corpse in which his cock was still buried began slow and lessen in ferocity; in another minute, the body was reduced to a twitching pile of meat and Joe was able to pull out without too much trouble. Sometimes, the meat can knot up on yer tool…

Stretching himself and sighing contentedly, the buff, hardbodied alpha ambled off to find the bathroom.

When he did, he noted the palatial appointments—the sunken marble tub, the matching marble vanity tops, the multi-jet rainfall shower—there was even a bidet, for fuck’s sake. Smiling with amused contempt, he grabbed the thickest, most decorative-looking guest towel he could find and, soaking it in the sink, used it to clean the dead boy’s cum off his chest and belly, as well as wiping down his dick.

Then, with a malicious grin, he took the towel over to the tub and wedged a corner of it down into the drain as tightly as he could, before turning the hot water on full blast. As he left the bathroom, he idly wondered how long it would take the tub to overflow. After all, he wasn’t quote done here.

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved his t-shirt and jeans, quickly slipping the shirt on. Tucking the shirt into his pants, he zipped the fly and threaded the belt back around his narrow waist. Then he sat on the bed, pulling his sock and boots back on, eyeing the evening’s work critically as he did.

His experience told him the composition was unfinished. The dead kid was splayed out on his back with both the right arm and right leg bent at impossible angles and a single sock on his left foot. The head was bent forward around the poker as if his was trying to look down his chest. The meat’s face was starting to fade from black back to a cyan blue; it was still swollen and streaked with drool. The eyes no longer protruded quite so grotesquely, but the tongue still did. The smooth chest and belly were smeared with a white crust—the fag’s own cum, some of which was still leaking from his deflating cock.

Something was still needed, something to drive home the contempt Joe felt for the meat—and for the parents who raised it. Something that would—oh, yes. That would work.

Smiling broadly, Joe strode across to the corpse, the loud thumping of his boots fading once he stepped on the bearskin rug. Placing one hand flat on the cunt’s forehead, he shoved it back while grabbing the poker with his other hand. He turned, shifted slightly, and knelt between the meat’s spread legs. With a loud grunt and a single powerful thrust of his arm, Joe rammed the poker up the corpse’s ass, tearing and mutilating the dead flesh until it had gone a good two feet into the meat’s intestines. Only the brass handle and few inches of black iron stuck out of the kid’s ass; the head of the instrument, deep inside the corpse, had been smeared with Joe’s cum as it punched its way through the boy’s innards.

Joe stood up and took a step back for another critical glance. There. That was perfect.

He wasn’t the type to whistle, but if he was, he would have been whistling as he headed for the door; he’d gotten his dick milked and he’d put another fag down good and hard; all in all, a good night’s work. As he got to the bedroom door, something caught his eye—a cellphone on an otherwise bare dresser. Probably the meat’s. That could be handy; he needed to dump the one he’d used to respond to the ad—he’d used it too many times. Didn’t need to be traced.

Powering up the phone, he saw it had a touch lock. Well, that damn sure wasn’t a problem. He strolled back to the corpse and used the stiffening index finger to unlock the phone. Once it was open, he reset the lock to his own finger. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he took some photos of the corpse, from different angles and varying degrees of closeness.

Once he finished recording the brutality he’d visited upon the meat, he turned and left the room. The echo of his big black boots on the staircase lingered for a moment after he’d gone, but soon the big house was quiet, the flickering of the still-lit gas fireplace providing the only hint of heat or motion in the darkness.

Elaine unlocked the front door and stepped into the entryway in a brusque manner indicative of her anger and impatience. The flight had been late and that stupid shuttle bus driver was so slow—and Larry had actually tipped him instead of telling the useless towelhead to go back to driving a camel in whatever fly-ridden country he was from…

Huffing and grunting under the weight of the luggage in the doorway behind her, Larry was no less in a foul mood; his face was red in the overheated way some men get in their mid-forties when they get stressed. “There, I think that’s everything,” he said, dumping the bags on the floor. “Are you sure the maids come back tomorrow? Some of this stuff’s gotta be—”

“Shh!” Elaine cut him off. “What’s that sound?”

Now the she’d drawn his attention to it, he could hear it too. It sounded like a waterfall—or at least, water falling from a height. “It’s coming from the dining room,” he said.

He headed in that direction with his wife following him. In the dining room, their worst fears—for the moment—were confirmed; water was pouring from the ceiling, running down the wires and the chain for the chandelier and splattering all over the antique damask-and-lace tablecloth.

“Oh my God,” Elaine squeaked, “Where’s that coming from?”

“Our bathroom is upstairs,” Larry replied in a dazed voice.

“Oh no, what has Bartholomew been doing?”

At this suggestion, Larry’s face went puce. “By God,” he growled, “If that brat’s responsible for this, I’m gonna take it outta his fuckin’ hide!”

He dashed for the stair, bawling, “You’re dead meat when I get a hold of ya, boy!”

Elaine trailed after him, wailing. “Don’t you hurt him, Larry! It must be an accident!”

Larry raced up the stairs, rounding the turn at the top and propelling himself into the open bedroom door—and there he paused, trying to make some sense of the bizarre scene in front of him. The splashing form the bathroom, the water running across the floor, the broken mirror—and Bart lying naked on the floor. He didn’t look right. Was he drunk? Had he gotten wasted, broken the mirror, left the tub or shower running and passed out in front of the fireplace? If that was the case, Larry was gonna kick his ass so hard. He walked towards the prone youth.

Elaine burst into the room just as Larry realized that Bart had indeed gotten wasted last night, but not in the sense that Larry had originally intended. Looking down at the beaten and strangled corpse of his son, the older man swayed on his feet. Dear God in heaven, what the hell was that sticking out of his ass?

He was in no condition divert his wife from the nauseating sight.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” she demanded as she entered. “Did Bartholomew do all this? Where is he?” She drew level with her husband, took one look down, shrieked at the top of her lungs and fell into a dead faint.

It was all over the local evening news. It didn’t make state news until photos of the corpse began appearing anonymously on social media sites. The first ones targeted were ones to which Larry or Elaine subscribed…

Erik’s eyes watered as he gulped and slurped on the thick cock that was stuffed down his throat. The teenaged boy was already well-experienced in giving blow jobs; he’d managed to get two-thirds of the way across the country by trading sex for rides with men he’d met at rest stop and gas stations.

Suddenly there was a grunt and a violent shudder and Erik felt a hot wet spurt on the back of his throat. His mouth filled with smoky manseed; he swallowed greedily, working his tongue along the sensitive ridge of flesh running along the underside of the engorged dick in a successful effort to milk every drop of cum out of the dude.

“Fuck,” the stranger moaned, “Damn, you’re good. Shame yer headin’ west up here at the interstate—I’d love to have ya suck my dick all the way back to Gallup.”

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, “Gotta get out to LA. I’m gonna make it big out there. Hey, looks like there’s a rest stop coming up—you can drop me there.”

The driver sighed, nodded, and pulled off into the rest stop. The place was well-lit, a state installation with restroom, an info center—closed at this late hour—and an array of vending machines; it also had separate lots for cars and commercial vehicles.

The car pulled up to the curb. Erik opened the door and the interior dome light illuminated the driver—an older, pudgy man. Erik had barely gotten a glimpse of him when he’d gotten in the car; he definitely wasn’t the kid’s type. Good thing he’d had nice, thick—if short—dick, or the ride woulda been a long, dull slog.

As the older man headed back onto the highway, the boy turned headed for the bathroom. He needed to piss, and he wanted somewhere air-conditioned to wait for another lift. The car lot was completely empty, and the commercial lot there was but a single semi, shrouded in darkness at the far end of the lot.

It was past two in the morning; it might be a while before the right guy came along. And it was hot. Even at this late hour, the dry desert heat lingered unusually late—wasn’t it supposed to get cooler at night?

Within seconds, the boy was standing at a urinal, his long shaft pounding out a steady stream of piss. It took a while to empty his bladder; once he finished, he washed up at a sink, contemplating his appearance in the mirror.

Erik—whose darkest secret was that his real name was Louis; he still blushed at the memory of his mother’s raucous cries of “Louie, get in here!”—was seventeen and certainly looked no older than that. He’d been sexually active for more than four years, and had already learned the power his lean, youthful body had over the desires of others. He had no concerns at all over trading his body to get what he wanted.

The problem was that he’d been born in a small town in North Carolina. The supply of men who were in a position to help him was small; he had to find a place where he could whore himself out on a grand scale. Los Angeles seemed ideal; three days after his seventeenth birthday, he’d taken the cash he’d received as gifts, a small bag of clothes, and climbed out of his bedroom window without looking back.

That was four days ago. Now he was here, somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona, almost within reach of his goal. Excited and happy, he stood at the sink and washed the glaze of dried cum from his lips.

He’d included gel and mousse in his bag; his short black hair stood up from his scalp, but his careful sculpting was tousled after his last BJ; it actually somehow emphasized a quality of artless youth. His thick black eyebrows added to the arrogant cast of face; his large blue eyes were those of a spoiled punk used to achieving his every whim with a minimum of effort.

His lithe, boyish body was barely clad in a wifebeater that displayed his trim youthful arms to perfection. The white cotton was so thin that the dampness of Erik’s sweat made it transparent; the dark circles surrounding his erect nipples were visible from across the room. Below the waist, the kid sported a pair of cheap running shorts; the bright blue nylon was short enough to display a long length of Erik’s smooth, firm thighs.

One thing he hadn’t packed enough of—and hadn’t yet stopped to get—was socks. There was nothing between his bare feet and his dark gray Nike Air Ring Leader sneakers.

Bending over the sink, Erik splashed water into his face. He’d spent days servicing fat old men for rides without any release. He desperately hoped the next dude he met would be hot; he was horny as all fuck.

Then the restroom door opened and Erik was confronted with the sexiest man he’d ever seen.

The newcomer was tall, well over six feet. He wore a short-sleeve flannel work shirt in red plaid; it was unbuttoned and spread wide, displaying a hairy, burly torso. Small, oblong pieces of metal were nestled in the dark wiry chest fur; even from a distance, Erik recognized them as dog tags. The stranger’s dark hair was mostly obscured by a khaki green trucker’s cap; his hard, masculine face and strong cleft chin covered with a short black scruff. The muscle-bound stud’s footsteps echoed as the thick soles of his black harness boots thumped across the tiled floor; above them, the stud’s worn, slightly oil-smudged jeans strained against his powerful legs with every movement. Around his narrow waist snaked a thick brown leather belt with a large, elaborate buckle.

Erik could tell at a glance that he was looking at a semi driver. And the same glance took in the enormous bulge in the dude’s crotch, an extended ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran frighteningly far down the older man’s right thigh.

Fuck, Erik thought, please let him gimme a lift. He doesn’t even have to be heading west; I’ll go wherever he wants…

The Trucker only needed one glance himself; he knew fuckmeat the moment he laid eyes on it. This one was young, still in his teen. The experience killer smiled; he could almost smell the abundance of hormones from here. Full of testosterone and cum—even from across the room, the Trucker could see the hard-on tenting the punk’s shorts.

He knew the kid would ask for something—money, a ride, drugs, something to get the ball rolling. He already knew he’d play along; it’d been a while since he’d had a chance drain the rage and sperm that was boiling up the need for explosive release.

But the first thing that needed explosive release was his bladder. Ignoring the boy, he walked straight back to the urinal. Unzipping his fly, he made sure to turn slightly back to the door, standing just far enough back from the urinal that the kid could watch as he slowly extracted the full length of his thick shaft from its tight denim confines. Turning back to piss, he smirked, having seen the slut’s jaw drop at the sight of his tool. Kid was hooked.

He was right, in more than one way. As the buff truck driver stuffed his enormous hog back into his jeans, Erik worked up the courage to approach him.

“H-hey, man,” the teen quavered, hating the lack of confidence in his voice, but unable to control it in the presence of such a hyper-masculine stud, “You, uh, you drivin’? I’m—I’m lookin’ for a ride…”

The Trucker turned and looked directly at the kid for the first time, his ice-blue eyes sliding over the young slut like a butcher appraising a side of beef. Erik was used to the look—but somehow, this was different. This dude seemed to be much more intense about it. And Erik himself was much more responsive. A dark moist circle sprouted at the highest point of the peak in his shorts.

The Trucker saw that, too. He grinned salaciously at the boy. “Yeah? Ya wanna ride, huh? And whatcha gonna do to earn yer way? You got gas money? Takes a lot to fill the tank, boy.”

Erik swallowed the lump he felt in his throat with an audible gulping sound. Just hearing it made the Trucker’s cock throb; his jeans were so tight that the pulsing of the massive tube of manflesh was as obvious to the kid as his own sexual arousal was to the Trucker.

“Yeah,” Erik gasped breathlessly, “I can do that. Fuck yeah, man I can do that as long as ya want.” What it was he could do didn’t need to be stated in any more detail at the moment.

“I’m headed west,” the Tucker said gruffly. Actually, he was headed north, but he’d seen enough of these worthless little road sluts to know they were usually headed out to LA in the hopes of whoring their way into riches and fame.

For a brief moment, he idly wondered how many ended up dead in a ditch. He was personally responsible for at least five that he could recall; they kinda blurred together after a while.

And at any rate, it didn’t matter which way the punk was going. The only way he was gonna go was down, permanently.

For his part, Erik would have gone whatever direction the Trucker was just for a chance to ride his cock; the fact that he was going west only added to his pleasure. “Aw, bro, that’s perfect!”

Abruptly, the Trucker headed for the door, jerking his head. Erik took the hint. In a moment, they were out of the building, the teen’s Nikes padding across the asphalt as he eagerly followed the Trucker’s thick, thumping bootsteps back into the darkness at the far end of the commercial lot.

Trailing like a puppy, Erik’s eyes were glued to the older man’s ass, covered in tight denim like a second skin. He felt as if he’d hit the jackpot—he felt as if, for the first time since running away from home, he was getting a glimpse of what his life held in store. For a moment, he was held entranced by the image of continuous sex with a string of hot buff studs—

—only to walk right into the back of the hot buff stud he was with. The latter had stopped at the cab of his truck. He turned and glared momentarily at Erik, making the boyslut blush with embarrassment.

The Trucker was briefly annoyed, but he smiled grimly at the thought of the punishment he’d soon be meting out to the cunt. Unlocking the door, he swung his large, muscle-bound frame up into the cab. “C’mon,” he said as he headed to the sleeper compartment in the rear. He didn’t bother to look back and see if the boy was following; he already knew. Stupid little faggot was walking into a killing pit with his eyes wide open.

Erik climbed into the semi’s cab. He glanced around the space in the back, marveling at the almost cozy compactness of the rear compartment as the Trucker closed off the front with a privacy curtain. The bunk on the rear wall wasn’t big, but it was big enough to get fucked on, and that was all he was interested in.

Hearing a faint thump behind him, Erik turned around and saw that the older man had slipped off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. The Trucker stood with his magnificent, bulked-out chest bare, with nothing but the dogtags to accent the furry cleft between his bulging hubcap pecs. It was warm in the cab—the Trucker had turned up the temp on AC, not wanting to run the battery low—and beads of sweat glistening deep in the forest of his body hair.

“Strip,” he commanded, looking levelly at Erik.

The kid complied, hurriedly pulling the white wifebeater up over his head and revealing his smooth, flat belly and broad chest, the low-rising pecs surmounted by large dark nipples. Erik then reached down to his slim waist and slipped the running shorts down, wriggling his firm legs to make them drop to the floor. He had to reach inside briefly when they got hung up on his jutting cock; once free of the silky blue nylon, his erect rod bobbed about, dripping clear spatters of precum on his Nike Air Rings.

The Trucker moved his hand down to his groin. Without breaking his cold, hypnotic eye contact with Erik, he slowly—very slowly—slid the zipper down.

Despite his cocky expression, Erik’s voice was hesitant and uncertain. “I-I’m, um, Erik—with a K,” he said haltingly, wanting to see what the older man was doing in his crotch but unable to look away from those captivating, ice-cold eyes. It took a physical effort to drag his eyes away; when he did, they landed on a half-empty pack of Marlboros on a small shelf to one side. The boy’s attention was momentarily diverted. “Hey, can I bum a smoke?

Erik took the hint and kneeled in front of the alpha, looking along the man’s rippled, fur-covered belly. “Uh-uh, face down here,” the Trucker growled, grabbing the punk’s head in his strong hand and physically reorienting it towards his open fly; as he did, he felt the cunt’s hair gel crunch under his fingers.

At eye-level with the open zipper, the teen could see that the massive tube was still semi-soft, bent downwards so the dick was stuffed down the stud’s left thigh. “Haul it out, you little slut,” the Trucker demanded.

Reaching in, Erik felt the throbbing in the thick cock in his hands. He tugged it mightily, slowly extracting the pulsating manmeat. Once he had the full length of the shaft out, it began rapidly stiffening in his grasp.

It was also oozing precum in a steady stream. “Put it in yer mouth, kid,” the Trucker demanded roughly. “I wanna feel you choke on it. I wanna feel my big cum-filled balls slapping against yer chin.”

Erik’s dick swelled painfully at the words, but before he could obey, the Trucker took matters—and the boy’s head—into his own hands. Digging his fingers into the slut’s stiff hair, he jerked forward, ramming his cock into the kid’s gaping mouth. Erik gagged, his eyes watering, as the thick rod, already slick with precum, slammed into the back of his throat; the shaft of manflesh was so large it forced his jaw open.

With his mouth crammed full of cock, the teen slut was in fag heaven. As he let his tongue lovingly explore every thick, pulsing vein wrapped around the enormous tool, he reached up, almost unconsciously, and ran his hands over the alpha’s tight, ripped abs, his fingers catching in the heavy, dark fur in the stud’s treasure trail.

Closing his eyes in erotic pleasure and fondling the older man’s rock-hard abdomen, Erik opened his jaw as wide as he could and did his best to deep-throat the huge, throbbing shaft. It wasn’t enough. Clutching Erik’s head in an iron grip, the Trucker shoved his swollen manhood far down the punk’s esophagus, completely plugging the airway.

Erik began to choke. It was hot as fuck—for about forty-five seconds. Then he pressed his hands flat against the top’s firm, powerful thighs and pushed, trying to pull back from the alpha’s overwhelming throatfuck. He couldn’t.

The kid started gagging. He slapped his hands on the Trucker’s legs, trying to signal him to back off; instead, with a sinister chuckle, the stud gripped the boy’s head tightly and drove his shaft even further into the slut’s trachea.

For a brief moment, as his eyes started to water, Erik began to panic. Then, with no warning at all, the Trucker pulled his tool out, shoving the kid away. Erik fell back on the floor, coughing.

“Get up here and work my nips, cunt,” the alpha commanded.

With the back of his hand, Erik wiped drool from his chin. He looked up at the leering top in disbelief. “Uh, c-can I have a cigarette now? Please?” he asked plaintively, his cockiness skullfucked out of him.

The Trucker paused for a moment, considering, then spoke. “Sure, cocksucker,” he grinned, “Grab the pack and the lighter and bring them here.”

Erik obeyed, scrambling quickly for the pack of Marlboros. Clutching them eagerly, he approached the Trucker. “Light one and gimme,” the alpha demanded. Again, the boy did what he was told, lighting the cigarette, then handing it to the older man before lighting one for himself.

Erik took a deep drag off his smoke but before he got the chance to exhale, the powerful top reached out and grabbed his head again, jerking it forward until the punk’s face was being ground into the stud’s chest hair. “I toldja to work my nips, asswipe,” the Trucker barked.

Suddenly the teen slut found a hard plug of flesh shoved into his mouth. He worked it with his tongue as he breathed out the cigarette smoke, feeling the nipple grow even firmer under the ministrations of his mouth and the hot smoke.

The moment the pressure on his head relaxed, Erik pulled back and took another drag. The Trucker wasn’t happy. “You only done one of ‘em, bitch,” he growled, but the effect wasn’t what he expected; the boyslut’s cockiness seemed to flood back into him with each fresh inhalation of nicotine.

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, leaning back on the bunk and sucking on the butt with his eyes closed. “I want you in me. I wanna feel that big cock in my ass. It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but I’ll bet I’m gonna remember this one.”

The Trucker’s eyes narrowed as his rage at the arrogant young fag bubbled up. “Remember it? You’ll remember my cock for the rest of yer pathetic little life, cocksucker.”

Erik blew out a huge cloud of smoke and lolled his head languidly, trying desperately to maintain his nonchalance, but his dick told the real story. The dribble of precum from his swollen purple head had increased dramatically; the slit in the tip had widened to allow a steady trickle of transparent fluid to flow.

“Oh yeah,” the horny teen said in a tight voice, shuddering with eager lust. Stubbing his butt out in a half-filled ashtray on a shelf, Erik turned around. Facing the rear of the cab, he bent over, placing his palms flat on the bunk, presenting his smooth bubble butt to the Trucker. Overwhelmed by the hormones flooding his lean, lithe adolescent body, Erik reached back with both hands and spread his rounded asscheeks. “Put it in me, dude,” he moaned, “Use me, dude, fuck me like there ain’t no tomorrow!”

A quiet voice came from behind, shot through with cold humor. “I can do that.” Then Erik felt pressure against his sphincter.

The Trucker grinned as he pushed the head of his dick—nearly the size of a standard cue ball—into the kid’s ass. Reaching over to the ashtray he ground his own smoke out, then grasped the punk’s waist with both hands and started to shove, feeling his enormous tool start to force its way into the youth’s tight fuckhole.

Erik grunted, first with pleasure, then—as the pressure on his ass continued to increase—with surprise. This was followed by a deeper grunt of effort as he struggled to adjust himself to the massive flesh tube penetrating his rectum.

It didn’t take long for the grunt to escalate into a cry of pain.

“Wait!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, it hurts—stop!”

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

Erik squealed in pain as his sphincter was stretched further than it ever had been before. The sound stoked the alpha’s anger; he dug his fingers into the boy’s tender skin, holding the struggling youth tightly.

Grabbing at the bunk, Erik managed to bring one knee up onto the edge of the sleeping surface. He lunged forward, trying to escape the pain of having his asshole torn open. He succeeded in slipping off the Trucker’s massive rod, but then his attempt backfired miserably.

It happened so fast he had no time to react. A powerful arm reached under his and then he was flipped in the air, landing on the bunk on his back, hard enough to knock the air out of him.

He looked up at the Trucker. “Stupid fuckin’ faggot,” the alpha sneered and dealt the punk a quick pair of rabbit punches right to the face. Bright pain exploded in Erik’s face and his head rocked back under the violent blows. Stunned, the youth was unable to protest as the muscle-bound sadist thrust his giant throbbing shaft between the kid’s parted legs.

The moment he rammed it home, though, Erik found his voice in spite of the sudden assault. The agony in his ass was like nothing he’d imagined could ever existed; the Trucker’s cock was so big it literally split the teen’s sphincter, ripping it open in two separate tears. Searing, glassy pain shot through the youth as his colon was stretched out of shape by the thick manmeat that plugged it full.

Erik screamed. He shrieked until his voice cracked as it echoed off the metal walls of the cab. “Yeah, that’s it,” the Trucker grinned, “That’s how a fag like you needs to get fucked, yeah? Take a real man’s dick, you worthless little sack a’ homo shit!”

Wallowing in nightmarish pain, Erik still heard and understood the buff killer’s words. They had no effect on his screaming; the veins wrapping the cruel top’s cock scraped his tender, sensitive rectal lining like barbed wire—his high-pitched shrieks were merely the involuntary result.

The punk’s deafening clamor only emphasized his desperate isolation. The teen fag’s lithe, lean body writhed helplessly, pinned to the bunk by the weight of his powerful assailant’s muscles, impaled on the alpha’s cock.

Outside, Erik’s screams were swept away on the hot night wind, becoming inaudible mere yards from the darkened cab. There was no one around for miles. There were just the two males, alone together, entwined in a painful, erotic embrace of violence and lust.

Again, Erik heard the words, but they seemed to come from some other world, some place beyond the glassy bubble of pain he was inhabiting. They had no bearing on his reality, which—like his ass—was full of cock. Enormous, agonizing cock, plumbing the furthest depths of his guts. Part of his mind that managed to remain insulated from the pain and fear of the brutal rape held a mental image of him at the moment as nothing more than a human sheath, wrapped around a gigantic dick.

He couldn’t understand why his own shaft was fully erect; pain had always made him go limp. He had no way of knowing that he was being stimulated internally by the intense pressure of the Trucker’s tool against his prostate. All the unfortunate runaway knew was that his own dick was traitorously stiff, bobbing in the air as he was being brutally assraped. And it hurt so fucking bad. And it was probably gonna hurt worse if he couldn’t stop screaming…

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

The Trucker leaned forward, his handsome, erotically masculine face lit from within by an unholy, frightening rage. There was a faint clinking sound as the top’s dogtags danced on the boy’s heaving chest. Erik could feel the older man’s breath hot on his face.

“I said shut the fuck up,” the Trucker hissed between clenched teeth; despite his intense anger, he never mistimed a single thrust of his hips as he continued to drive his shaft mercilessly up the punk’s ass.

“No! Get outta me! Fuckin’ hell, get it out, it hurts fuck AAAHHHH!” Erik screeched. His balled fists drummed uselessly against the Trucker’s broad, rock-hard chest. Suddenly the Trucker twisted away; keeping the kid impaled on his erect rod, he managed to bend down and snatch something up off the floor of the cab. He made sure to hold it up in front of Erik’s face.

It was Erik’s white cotton wifebeater. At first, the shrieking teen didn’t understand.

“I toldja I’d shut you up, faggot,” the Trucker snarled. He started twisting the shirt into a three-foot length of fabric, and Erik understood. He stopped screaming, but it was too late.

“Was gonna off yer worthless ass anyway, punk,” the Trucker sneered, breaking the sudden silence, “But yer screamin’ like a fuckin’ pansy and it’s gettin’ on my nerves. So ya get to die a few minutes early.”

Erik shook his head, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with fear. He didn’t want to acknowledge the purpose of the twisted shirt in the alpha’s hands, but he wasn’t permitted the luxury of denial. The Trucker lunged; Erik tried to block but the alpha knocked his arms away as easily as swatting a fly. Before he could prevent it, the scared teen realized the cotton band had been wrapped around his throat—and pulled tight.

The fabric was still damp and rank with hormone-laden boysweat. Just before his air was cut off, Erik inhaled a deep, heady musk; the mix of his own sweat and that of the powerful alpha filled his lungs with pheromones before they were permanently sealed.

“There ya go,” the Trucker jeered, “Now shaddup and die, fuckmeat.”

It was worth it, the alpha thought as he jerked the wifebeater brutally tight, it was worth it, just to see the look of panic in the young faggot’s eyes, just to feel the teen’s fuckhole clench his dick in involuntary spasms.

Terror welled up in Erik. This stud, this muscle-bound god—this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He hadn’t hit the jackpot, he was being hurt, being raped…being murdered. Frantically, he jammed his hands up under the Trucker’s jaw, trying futilely to push the alpha away.

The powerful sadist easily shrugged the kid’s flailing hands away. “Die on my dick, you cumsuckin’ pervert,” he sneered, then hocked a wad of phlegm into the boy’s panic-stricken face. “It feels so fuckin’ good when little homo fucks like you kick and die with my cock inside ya.”

Erik kicked and writhed in horrific agony; the tensile strength of the damp cotton band allowed it to sink deeply into the kid’s smooth, soft neck flesh without stretching or tearing. The frantic youth clawed desperately at the shirt, but once it sank in, he could no longer get his fingers around it—and he turned his panic on his assailant.

The Trucker had snuffed at least two dozen faggots—he didn’t keep count—and by now knew the stages of terror, submission and death better than the meat experiencing them did. He recognized the impending explosion of fear and braced himself as the cunt lashed out like a feral cat.

The slim young teen scrambled with a frenetic strength that would have surprised anyone not experienced with the true fear of death; the meat was awash in cold terror and stuck blindly at the Trucker’s muscled mass. His hands, crabbed like claws, clutched at the older man’s bulging biceps before slipping off the sweat-slick skin.

Still mindlessly seeking some way of stopping the choking pain, the clutching, grabbing hands soon landed on the Trucker’s broad chest—and dug in. The kid’s fingers curled in the wiry, almost steel wool-like chest hair and yanked painfully.

Then, inadvertently, Erik opened the door to a whole new universe of pain. He raked his fingernails over the Trucker’s chest, scraping off fur and drawing blood.

Only one person had made the Trucker bleed before, and that wasn’t a good memory. It triggered a heightened rage response.

“Goddam fuckin’ piece of fag shit!” he roared, twisting the cotton shirt so he could maintain the excruciating tautness with a single hand. The other hand he drew back into a fist, then used it to punctuate his speech with the emphasis of a wrecking ball.

“Worthless [BAM] little [BAM] motherfucker [BAM], you still don’t fuckin’ get it [BAM], do ya [BAM]? Only thing yer good for is milkin’ my shaft [BAM] and soakin’ up my load [BAM]. Looks like I’m gonna hafta beat it into ya [BAM], huh, cunt [BAM]? Know what I’m gonna do [BAM] with yer used-up boymeat [BAM] when I’m done with ya [BAM]? Huh? I’m gonna throw ya out [BAM] like a used cumrag [BAM]—yer gonna end up rottin’ in a ditch like garbage, hah [BAM]!”

The third blow was accompanied by a snapping sound as Erik’s cheekbone broke, the fifth with the squelching sound of split lips. On the seventh or eighth—neither predator nor prey was keeping an accurate count—the boy’s nose broke, the cartilage collapsing with a loud crunching noise. And on the thirteenth impact, the orbit of the teen’s left eye fractured into multiple pieces, causing the white of the swelling, bulging orb to hemorrhage blood-red.

Unfortunately for Erik, his youth worked against him; his adolescent body, fueled by raging hormones, was unable to succumb to unconsciousness. He was awake and aware of every blow, and every word. He knew exactly what was happening to him; he just couldn’t understand why.

Even the sex had gone bad; it felt like a massive ingot of white-hot steel had been shoved up his ass, searing his guts out as it reamed his fuckhole. The intense pressure against his prostate was reflected in the intense pressure in his cock; it felt so achingly hard and swollen that it seemed about to burst. And the pressure of the ligature around his throat was reflected by the pressure in his chest, which felt like it had already burst in a fiery explosion that still raged within him.

It was his head that hurt the worst, though; his smashed face was flaming agony, but on the inside…oh my fuckin’ god my head is swelling my tongue I can’t close my mouth I can’t close my eyes…

Taking the shirt back in both hands and tightening it further, the Trucker lowered himself down until he was lying full-length on top of the kid. The lean, smooth teen body writhed and jerked under the weight of the muscled hardman, skin sliding against furry skin on a lube of deathsweat that was being squeezed out of the boy.

The older man bent his head down to whisper in the punk’s ear; as he did so, the stiff black stubble on his cheek grazed the kid’s face, scraping painfully against the boy’s bruised, swelling skin.

“Ya feelin’ me now, boy? Ya findin’ out what it feels like to die, aintcha? Fuck yeah, cunt, I’m gonna cum so hard when you die. Been too long since I wasted a fag—you came along just in time, asswipe. Stupid young fuckmeat, ready and waiting to suffer and die on my dick. Just needed a little tenderizin’ to learn how to accept death from the hands of a real man.”

Erik hadn’t learned to accept his own death yet, but at the moment the terror was overwhelmed with sheer physical pain; as his nervous system slowly began to die of oxygen deprivation, the nerve endings underwent a common paradoxical reaction—they became more sensitive. The slighted touch against Erik’s skin was magnified to the intensity of agony.

Without even breaking the skin, the sharp edges of the Trucker’s dogtags, pressed as they were into the boy’s chest by the heavier man’s weight, felt like knives piercing his flesh. His thick purple cock, already painfully erect, was also pressed between the entwined male forms; as the underside rasped up and down on the Trucker’s large metal belt buckle, Erik felt unimaginable pain that he pictured mentally as the skin being flayed off his dick.

Beneath him, the once-arrogant teen was unrecognizable in the battered, blackened mass of swollen flesh above the cotton band—the latter sunk so deep in the kid’s throat it was almost invisible. Erik’s face was dark and congested, the eyes—both now blood-red with hemorrhages—bulging grotesquely from their sockets, the left one off-center from the shattered orbit. They were swollen to the point he was unable to close them; he was forced to watch his own Nike Air Ring Leaders, just past the Trucker’s shoulders, as they kicked and flailed helplessly in the air.

The boy’s split, purple lips had parted, letting the monstrously swollen tongue to emerge in mass of thick white foam that drooled down the youth’s smooth cheeks. His black hair, stiff in gelled disarray, was wet with the same cold deathsweat that soaked his pits and lubed his smooth young body.

Erik heard the words—barely, and understood them—barely, but they no longer carried an immediacy about them. His brain was dying, cerebral cells going dark by the millions as his body shudder helplessly in the grip of a death that was swiftly approaching—but not swiftly enough.

The teen slut was ready to die. The pain was too much; he just wanted it to end, but the Trucker was right—his youth worked against him; his healthy system had been full of oxygen when his air supply had been cut off.

He could feel—oh fuck, he could still feel everything. This wasn’t supposed to be happening; he’d just wanted a lift and some dick. Now—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, his throat, he could feel is collapsing—

No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—

The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside. With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.

The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock. Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience. The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—

—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.

“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good. You earned this, you faggot slut. Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road. Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”

The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react. Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements. As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.

The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes. And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies. The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders. The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.

Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.

“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum. Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.

Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage. It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.

As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.

The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.

A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk. Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.

There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager. The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it. The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.

The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer. The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.

Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab. Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room. Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.

Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo. Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.

The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that. Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.

He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest. As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock. The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…

The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.

He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup. He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.

He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder. Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.

It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.

Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab. Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.

Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet. His cock was straining painfully in his jeans. The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.

“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”

Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down. He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it. In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.

As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines. When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.

Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised. The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.

With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager. The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass. The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.

It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…

It was too much. The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen. “Fuck! Fuck! Goddam faggot! Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment. Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.

The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.

For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock. As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.

So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully. There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.

It was finally ID’d by dental records. The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.

There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker. When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.